THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


VAN   BIBBER 

AND   OTHERS 


From  a  photograph  by  Pach  Bros 


/  ff 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


VAN   BIBBER 

AND    OTHERS 


BY 

RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 


WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

BOOTH  TARKINGTON 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1919 


The  first  nine  stories  in  this  rolume  from  "  Van  Bibber  and 
Others,"  copyright,  1892,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


Of  the  remainder,  "Van  Bibber  and  the  Swan-Boats," 
"Van  Bibber's  Burglar,"  "Van  Bibber  as  Best  Man," 
"  My  Disreputable  Friend,  Mr.  Raegen,"  "  The  Trafle* 
for  Room  No.  8,"  and  "A  Walk  Up  the  Arenue  "  from 
"Gallegher  and  Other  Stories,"  copyright,  1891,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNKH'S  SONS;  "Cinderella,"  "The 
Editor's  Story,"  and  "An  Assisted  Emigrant "  from  "  Cin 
derella,"  copyright,  1896,  by  CHARLES  SCRJBNEK'S 
SONS :  "  The  Man  with  One  Talent "  ftom  "  The  Uon 
and  the  Unicorn."  copyright,  1903,  by  CHARLES 
SCRIBNER  S  SONS. 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
BESSIE  McCOY  DAVIS 


College 
Library 

PS 
\5 

MIS 


TO 
MY   FATHER 

L.  CLARKE  DAVIS 

WHO   HAS    BEEN   MY   KINDEST  AND 
MY   SEVEREST  CRITIC 


1182205 


PUBLISHERS'  NOTE 

THIS  edition  has  been  prepared  in  pursuance 
of  a  plan  long  contemplated,  and  on  lines  dis 
cussed  and  arranged  with  Mr.  Davis  a  year  or 
more  ago.  It  has  now  been  completed  with 
what  is  believed  to  be  a  full  knowledge  of  his 
wishes. 

It  has  been  thought  of  interest  to  preserve  in 
connection  with  it  some  of  the  notable  recollec 
tions  and  appreciations  which  his  death  called 
forth.  They  have  therefore  been  prefixed  as 
introductory  passages  to  the  several  volumes, 
though  in  only  two  or  three  cases  have  they 
any  association  with  special  books.  In  a  few 
instances  they  were  published  in  periodicals  and 
the  press;  those  of  Colonel  Roosevelt,  Mr.  Gib 
son  and  Mr.  McCutcheon  appeared  in  Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine,  and  thanks  are  due  to  the 
Metropolitan  Magazine  and  Collier's  Weekly  for 
permission  to  reprint  those  by  Mr.  Gouverneur 
Morris  and  Mr.  Dunne;  but  most  of  them  ap 
pear  here  for  the  first  time. 

SEPTEMBER,  1916. 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 

To  the  college  boy  of  the  early  nineties  Richard 
Harding  Davis  was  the  "beau  ideal  of  jeunesse 
doree"  a  sophisticated  heart  of  gold.  He  was  of 
that  college  boy's  own  age,  but  already  an  editor 
— already  publishing  books !  His  stalwart  good 
looks  were  as  familiar  to  us  as  were  those  of  our 
own  football  captain;  we  knew  his  face  as  we  knew 
the  face  of  the  President  of  the  United  States,  but 
we  infinitely  preferred  Davis's.  When  the  Waldorf 
was  wondrously  completed,  and  we  cut  an  exam,  in 
Cuneiform  Inscriptions  for  an  excursion  to  see  the 
world  at  lunch  in  its  new  magnificence,  and  Richard 
Harding  Davis  came  into  the  Palm  Room — then,  oh, 
then,  our  day  was  radiant !  That  was  the  top  of  our 
fortune:  we  could  never  have  hoped  for  so  much. 
Of  all  the  great  people  of  every  continent,  this  was 
the  one  we  most  desired  to  see. 

The  boys  of  those  days  left  college  to  work,  to 
raise  families,  to  grow  grizzled;  but  the  glamour  re 
mained  about  Davis;  he  never  grew  grizzled.  Youth 
was  his  great  quality. 

All  his  writing  has  the  liveliness  of  springtime;  it 
stirs  with  an  unsuppressible  gayety,  and  it  has  the 

be 


RICHARD    HARDING   DAVIS 

attraction  which  companionship  with  him  had:  there 
is  never  enough.  He  could  be  sharp;  he  could  write 
angrily  and  witheringly;  but  even  when  he  was 
fiercest  he  was  buoyant,  and  when  his  words  were 
hot  they  were  not  scalding  but  rather  of  a  dry, 
clean  indignation  with  things  which  he  believed 
could,  if  they  would,  be  better.  He  never  saw  evil 
but  as  temporary. 

Following  him  through  his  books,  whether  he 
wrote  of  home  or  carried  his  kind,  stout  heart  far, 
far  afield,  we  see  an  American  writing  to  Americans. 
He  often  told  us  about  things  abroad  in  terms  of 
New  York;  and  we  have  all  been  to  New  York,  so 
he  made  for  us  the  pictures,  he  wished  us  to  see. 
And  when  he  did  not  thus  use  New  York  for  his 
colors  he  found  other  means  as  familiar  to  us  and  as 
suggestive;  he  always  made  us  see.  What  claims 
our  thanks  in  equal  measure,  he  knew  our  kind  of 
curiosity  so  well  that  he  never  failed  to  make  us 
see  what  we  were  most  anxious  to  see.  He  knew 
where  our  dark  spots  were,  cleared  up  the  field  of 
vision,  and  left  us  unconfused.  This  discernment 
of  our  needs,  and  this  power  of  enlightening  and 
pleasuring  his  reader,  sprang  from  seeds  native  in 
him.  They  were,  as  we  say,  gifts;  for  he  always 
had  them  but  did  not  make  them.  He  was  a  na 
tional  figure  at  twenty-three.  He  knew  how,  before 
he  began. 

Youth  called  to  youth :  all  ages  read  him,  but  the 

x 


RICHARD    HARDING   DAVIS 

young  men  and  young  women  have  turned  to  him 
ever  since  his  precocious  fame  made  him  their  idol. 
They  got  many  things  from  him,  but  above  all  they 
live  with  a  happier  bravery  because  of  him.  Read 
ing  the  man  beneath  the  print,  they  found  their 
prophet  and  gladly  perceived  that  a  prophet  is  not 
always  cowled  and  bearded,  but  may  be  a  gallant 
young  gentleman.  This  one  called  merrily  to  them 
in  his  manly  voice;  and  they  followed  him.  He 
bade  them  see  that  pain  is  negligible,  that  fear  is  a 
joke,  and  that  the  world  is  poignantly  interesting, 
joyously  lovable. 

They  will  always  follow  him. 

BOOTH  TARKINGTON. 


SI 


CONTENTS 

Richard  Harding  Davis Booth  Tarkington 


PACE 

HER    FIRST    APPEARANCE  I 


C/    VAN    BIBBER'S    MAN-SERVANT 

•/ 

THE    HUNGRY   MAN    WAS    FED 42 

jf 

^}    VAN    BIBBER   AT   THE    RACES  r    . 50   L- 

S  X 

^  AN    EXPERIMENT    IN    ECONOM^F. 59     U'' 

fi     MR.    TRAVERS'S    FIRST    HUNT  V 67    f^ 

'^  LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG  ^\  .  .  *  .  .  .  73 
A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVERf  ....  82 
HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN  .....  96 

0  VAN    BIBBER   AND   THE    SWAN-BOATSr  .     .     .  no 

X* 

VAN    tURRFR'S    BURGLAR       •     '  /• JI7  -^" 

/ I30      ^ 


BIBBER   AS    BEST   MAN 

AN   ASSISTED    EMIGRANT 140 

MY   DISREPUTABLE    FRIEND,    MR.    RAEGEN      .  153 

A    WALK    UP   THE   AVENUE^ 182 

CINDERELLA  y^.     .     .     .     . 

Kill 


/ 

* 


CONTENTS 

/PAGE 
....       222 

AN   UNFINISHED   STORY 259 

THE   TRAILER   FOR   ROOM   NO.    8  ^  .     '.     .     .      290 
THE   EDITOR'S   STORY  J .     ......'..      306 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS    .    .    .    .    .'    Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"CAN    I    SIT    UP    HERE    BESIDE   YOU,    OR   DO 

YOU    RULE    ALONE?" 12 

HE   SPRANG   UP   TREMBLING   TO    HIS    FEET    .       160 

"SHE'D    REACH    OUT    HER    HANDS    AND    KISS 

ME" l8o 

I 

"YOU     ARE     LIKE     A     RING     OF     GAMBLERS 

AROUND   A   GAMING   TABLE" 252 


HER  FIRST  APPEARANCE 

IT  was  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  of  the  first 
night  of  "The  Sultana,"  and  every  member  of 
the  Lester  Comic  Opera  Company,  from  Lester 
himself  down  to  the  wardrobe  woman's  son, 
who  would  have  had  to  work  if  his  mother  lost 
her  place,  was  sick  with  anxiety. 

There  is  perhaps  only  one  other  place  as  fever 
ish  as  it  is  behind  the  scenes  on  the  first  night 
of  a  comic  opera,  and  that  is  a  newspaper  office 
on  the  last  night  of  a  Presidential  campaign, 
when  the  returns  are  being  flashed  on  the  can 
vas  outside,  and  the  mob  is  howling,  and  the 
editor-in-chief  is  expecting  to  go  to  the  Court 
of  St.  James  if  the  election  comes  his  way,  and 
the  office-boy  is  betting  his  wages  that  it  won't. 

Such  nights  as  these  try  men's  souls;  but  Van 
Bibber  passed  the  stage-door  man  with  as 
calmly  polite  a  nod  as  though  the  piece  had 
been  running  a  hundred  nights,  and  the  man 
ager  was  thinking  up  souvenirs  for  the  one  hun 
dred  and  fiftieth,  and  the  prima  donna  had,  as 
usual,  begun  to  hint  for  a  new  set  of  costumes. 
The  stage-door  keeper  hesitated  and  was  lost, 
and  Van  Bibber  stepped  into  the  unsuppressed 


HER   FIRST  APPEARANCE 

excitement  of  the  place  with  a  pleased  sniff  at 
the  familiar  smell  of  paint  and  burning  gas,  and 
the  dusty  odor  that  came  from  the  scene-lofts 
above. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated  in  the  cross-lights 
and  confusion  about  him,  failing  to  recognize  in 
their  new  costumes  his  old  acquaintances  of  the 
company;  but  he  saw  Kripps,  the  stage-man 
ager,  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  perspiring  and 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  as  always,  wildly  waving  an 
arm  to  some  one  in  the  flies,  and  beckoning  with 
the  other  to  the  gas-man  in  the  front  entrance. 
The  stage  hands  were  striking  the  scene  for  the 
first  act,  and  fighting  with  the  set  for  the  second, 
and  dragging  out  a  canvas  floor  of  tessellated 
marble,  and  running  a  throne  and  a  practical 
pair  of  steps  over  it,  and  aiming  the  high  quak 
ing  walls  of  a  palace  and  abuse  at  whoever 
came  in  their  way. 

"Now  then,  Van  Bibber,"  shouted  Kripps, 
with  a  wild  glance  of  recognition,  as  the  white- 
and-black  figure  came  toward  him,  "y°u  know 
you're  the  only  man  in  New  York  who  gets 
behind  here  to-night.  But  you  can't  stay. 
Lower  it,  lower  it,  can't  you?"  This  to  the 
man  in  the  flies.  "Any  other  night  goes,  but 
not  this  night.  I  can't  have  it.  I —  Where 
is  the  backing  for  the  centre  entrance?  Didn't 
I  tell  you  men " 

2 


HER  FIRST  APPEARANCE 

Van  Bibber  dodged  two  stage  hands  who 
were  steering  a  scene  at  him,  stepped  over  the 
carpet  as  it  unrolled,  and  brushed  through  a 
group  of  anxious,  whispering  chorus  people 
into  the  quiet  of  the  star's  dressing-room. 

The  star  saw  him  in  the  long  mirror  before 
which  he  sat,  while  his  dresser  tugged  at  his 
boots,  and  threw  up  his  hands  desperately. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  in  mock  resignation,  "are 
we  in  it  or  are  we  not?  Are  they  in  their  seats 
still  or  have  they  fled?" 

"How  are  you,  John?"  said  Van  Bibber  to 
the  dresser.  Then  he  dropped  into  a  big  arm 
chair  in  the  corner,  and  got  up  again  with  a 
protesting  sigh  to  light  his  cigar  between  the 
wires  around  the  gas-burner.  "Oh,  it's  going 
very  well.  I  wouldn't  have  come  around  if  it 
wasn't.  If  the  rest  of  it  is  as  good  as  the  first 
act,  you  needn't  worry." 

Van  Bibber's  unchallenged  freedom  behind 
the  scenes  had  been  a  source  of  much  comment 
and  perplexity  to  the  members  of  the  Lester 
Comic  Opera  Company.  He  had  made  his  first 
appearance  there  during  one  hot  night  of  the 
long  run  of  the  previous  summer,  and  had  con 
tinued  to  be  an  almost  nightly  visitor  for  sev 
eral  weeks.  At  first  it  was  supposed  that  he 
was  backing  the  piece,  that  he  was  the  "Angel," 
as  those  weak  and  wealthy  individuals  are  called 

3 


HER  FIRST  APPEARANCE 

who  allow  themselves  to  be  led  into  supplying 
the  finances  for  theatrical  experiments.  But  as 
he  never  peered  through  the  curtain-hole  to 
count  the  house,  nor  made  frequent  trips  to 
the  front  of  it  to  look  at  the  box  sheet,  but  was, 
on  the  contrary,  just  as  undisturbed  on  a  rainy 
night  as  on  those  when  the  "standing  room 
only"  sign  blocked  the  front  entrance,  this  sup 
position  was  discarded  as  untenable.  Nor  did 
he  show  the  least  interest  in  the  prima  donna, 
or  in  any  of  the  other  pretty  women  of  the 
company;  he  did  not  know  them,  nor  did  he 
make  any  effort  to  know  them,  and  it  was  not 
until  they  inquired  concerning  him  outside  of 
the  theatre  that  they  learned  what  a  figure  in 
the  social  life  of  the  city  he  really  was.  He 
spent  most  of  his  time  in  Lester's  dressing-room 
smoking,  listening  to  the  reminiscences  of  Les 
ter's  dresser  when  Lester  was  on  the  stage;  and 
this  seclusion  and  his  clerical  attire  of  evening 
dress  led  the  second  comedian  to  call  him  Les 
ter's  father  confessor,  and  to  suggest  that  he 
came  to  the  theatre  only  to  take  the  star  to 
task  for  his  sins.  And  in  this  the  second  come 
dian  was  unknowingly  not  so  very  far  wrong. 
Lester,  the  comedian,  and  young  Van  Bibber 
had  known  each  other  at  the  university,  when 
Lester's  voice  and  gift  of  mimicry  had  made 
him  the  leader  in  the  college  theatricals;  and 

4 


HER   FIRST  APPEARANCE 

later,  when  he  had  gone  upon  the  stage,  and 
had  been  cut  off  by  his  family  even  after  he 
had  become  famous,  or  on  account  of  it,  Van 
Bibber  had  gone  to  visit  him,  and  had  found 
him  as  simple  and  sincere  and  boyish  as  he  had 
been  in  the  days  of  his  Hasty-Pudding  suc 
cesses.  And  Lester,  for  his  part,  had  found 
Van  Bibber  as  likable  as  did  every  one  else,  and 
welcomed  his  quiet  voice  and  youthful  knowl 
edge  of  the  world  as  a  grateful  relief  to  the 
boisterous  camaraderie  of  his  professional  ac 
quaintances.  And  he  allowed  Van  Bibber  to 
scold  him,  and  to  remind  him  of  what  he  owed 
to  himself,  and  to  touch,  even  whether  it  hurt 
or  not,  upon  his  better  side.  And  in  time  he 
admitted  to  finding  his  friend's  occasional  com 
ments  on  stage  matters  of  value  as  coming  from 
the  point  of  view  of  those  who  look  on  at  the 
game;  and  even  Kripps,  the  veteran,  regarded 
him  with  respect  after  he  had  told  him  that  he 
could  turn  a  set  of  purple  costumes  black  by 
throwing  a  red  light  on  them.  To  the  com 
pany,  after  he  came  to  know  them,  he  was 
gravely  polite,  and,  to  those  who  knew  him  if 
they  had  overheard,  amusingly  commonplace  in 
his  conversation.  He  understood  them  better 
than  they  did  themselves,  and  made  no  mis 
takes.  The  women  smiled  on  him,  but  the 
men  were  suspicious  and  shy  of  him  until  they 

5 


HER  FIRST  APPEARANCE 

saw  that  he  was  quite  as  shy  of  the  women; 
and  then  they  made  him  a  confidant,  and  told 
him  all  their  woes  and  troubles,  and  exhibited 
all  their  little  jealousies  and  ambitions,  in  the 
innocent  hope  that  he  would  repeat  what  they 
said  to  Lester.  They  were  simple,  unconven 
tional,  light-hearted  folk,  and  Van  Bibber  found 
them  vastly  more  entertaining  and  preferable 
to  the  silence  of  the  deserted  club,  where  the 
matting  was  down,  and  from  whence  the  regular 
habitues  had  departed  to  the  other  side  or  to 
Newport.  He  liked  the  swing  of  the  light, 
bright  music  as  it  came  to  him  through  the 
open  door  of  the  dressing-room,  and  the  glimpse 
he  got  of  the  chorus  people  crowding  and  push 
ing  for  a  quick  charge  up  the  iron  stairway, 
and  the  feverish  smell  of  oxygen  in  the  air,  and 
the  picturesque  disorder  of  Lester's  wardrobe, 
and  the  wigs  and  swords,  and  the  mysterious 
articles  of  make-up,  all  mixed  together  on  a 
tray  with  half-finished  cigars  and  autograph 
books  and  newspaper  "notices." 

And  he  often  wished  he  was  clever  enough 
to  be  an  artist  with  the  talent  to  paint  the  un 
consciously  graceful  groups  in  the  sharply  di 
vided  light  and  shadow  of  the  wings  as  he  saw 
them.  The  brilliantly  colored,  fantastically 
clothed  girls  leaning  against  the  bare  brick  wall 
of  the  theatre,  or  whispering  together  in  circles, 

6 


with  their  arms  close  about  one  another,  or 
reading  apart  and  solitary,  or  working  at  some 
piece  of  fancy-work  as  soberly  as  though  they 
were  in  a  rocking-chair  in  their  own  flat,  and 
not  leaning  against  a  scene  brace,  with  the 
glare  of  the  stage  and  the  applause  of  the  house 
just  behind  them.  He  liked  to  watch  them 
coquetting  with  the  big  fireman  detailed  from 
the  precinct  engine-house,  and  clinging  desper 
ately  to  the  curtain  wire,  or  with  one  of  the 
chorus  men  on  the  stairs,  or  teasing  the  phleg 
matic  scene-shifters  as  they  tried  to  catch  a 
minute's  sleep  on  a  pile  of  canvas.  He  even 
forgave  the  prima  donna's  smiling  at  him  from 
the  stage,  as  he  stood  watching  her  from  the 
wings,  and  smiled  back  at  her  with  polite  cyn 
icism,  as  though  he  did  not  know  and  she  did 
not  know  that  her  smiles  were  not  for  him,  but 
to  disturb  some  more  interested  one  in  the  front 
row.  And  so,  in  time,  the  company  became  so 
well  accustomed  to  him  that  he  moved  in  and 
about  as  unnoticed  as  the  stage-manager  him 
self,  who  prowled  around  hissing  "hush"  on 
principle,  even  though  he  was  the  only  person 
who  could  fairly  be  said  to  be  making  a  noise. 
The  second  act  was  on,  and  Lester  came  off 
the  stage  and  ran  to  the  dressing-room  and 
beckoned  violently.  "Come  here,"  he  said; 
"you  ought  to  see  this;  the  children  are  doing 

7 


HER   FIRST  APPEARANCE 

their  turn.     You  want  to  hear  them.     They're 
great!" 

Van  Bibber  put  his  cigar  into  a  tumbler  and 
stepped  out  into  the  wings.  They  were  crowded 
on  both  sides  of  the  stage  with  the  members  of 
the  company;  the  girls  were  tiptoeing,  with 
their  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the  men,  and 
making  futile  little  leaps  into  the  air  to  get  a 
better  view,  and  others  were  resting  on  one 
knee  that  those  behind  might  see  over  their 
shoulders.  There  were  over  a  dozen  children 
before  the  footlights,  with  the  prima  donna  in 
the  centre.  She  was  singing  the  verses  of  a 
song,  and  they  were  following  her  movements, 
and  joining  in  the  chorus  with  high  piping 
voices.  They  seemed  entirely  too  much  at 
home  and  too  self-conscious  to  please  Van  Bib 
ber;  but  there  was  one  exception.  The  one  ex 
ception  was  the  smallest  of  them,  a  very,  very 
little  girl,  with  long  auburn  hair  and  black  eyes; 
such  a  very  little  girl  that  every  one  in  the 
house  looked  at  her  first,  and  then  looked  at 
no  one  else.  She  was  apparently  as  uncon 
cerned  to  all  about  her,  excepting  the  pretty 
prima  donna,  as  though  she  were  by  a  piano  at 
home  practising  a  singing  lesson.  She  seemed 
to  think  it  was  some  new  sort  of  a  game.  When 
the  prima  donna  raised  her  arms,  the  child 
raised  hers;  when  the  prima  donna  courtesied, 

8 


HER   FIRST  APPEARANCE 

she  stumbled  into  one,  and  straightened  herself 
just  in  time  to  get  the  curls  out  of  her  eyes,  and 
to  see  that  the  prima  donna  was  laughing  at 
her,  and  to  smile  cheerfully  back,  as  if  to  say, 
11  We  are  doing  our  best  anyway,  aren't  we?" 
She  had  big,  gentle  eyes  and  two  wonderful 
dimples,  and  in  the  excitement  of  the  dancing 
and  the  singing  her  eyes  laughed  and  flashed, 
and  the  dimples  deepened  and  disappeared  and 
reappeared  again.  She  was  as  happy  and  in 
nocent  looking  as  though  it  were  nine  in  the 
morning  and  she  were  playing  school  at  a  kin 
dergarten.  From  all  over  the  house  the  women 
were  murmuring  their  delight,  and  the  men 
were  laughing  and  pulling  their  mustaches  and 
nudging  each  other  to  "look  at  the  littlest 
one." 

The  girls  in  the  wings  were  rapturous  in  their 
enthusiasm,  and  were  calling  her  absurdly  ex 
travagant  titles  of  endearment,  and  making  so 
much  noise  that  Kripps  stopped  grinning  at 
her  from  the  entrance,  and  looked  back  over 
his  shoulder  as  he  looked  when  he  threatened 
fines  and  calls  for  early  rehearsal.  And  when 
she  had  finished  finally,  and  the  prima  donna, 
and  the  children  ran  off  together,  there  was  a 
roar  from  the  house  that  went  to  Lester's  head 
like  wine,  and  seemed  to  leap  clear  across  the 
footlights  and  drag  the  children  back  again. 

9 


HER  FIRST  APPEARANCE 

"That  settles  it!"  cried  Lester,  in  a  sup 
pressed  roar  of  triumph.  "I  knew  that  child 
would  catch  them." 

There  were  four  encores,  and  then  the  chil 
dren  and  Elise  Broughten,  the  pretty  prima 
donna,  came  off  jubilant  and  happy,  with  the 
Littlest  Girl's  arms  full  of  flowers,  which  the 
management  had  with  kindly  forethought  pre 
pared  for  the  prima  donna,  but  which  that  de 
lightful  young  person  and  the  delighted  leader 
of  the  orchestra  had  passed  over  to  the  little 
girl. 

"Well,"  gasped  Miss  Broughten,  as  she  came 
up  to  Van  Bibber  laughing,  and  with  one  hand 
on  her  side  and  breathing  very  quickly,  "will 
you  kindly  tell  me  who  is  the  leading  woman 
now?  Am  I  the  prima  donna,  or  am  I  not?  I 
wasn't  in  it,  was  I?" 

"You  were  not,"  said  Van  Bibber. 

He  turned  from  the  pretty  prima  donna  and 
hunted  up  the  wardrobe  woman,  and  told  her 
he  wanted  to  meet  the  Littlest  Girl.  And  the 
wardrobe  woman,  who  was  fluttering  wildly 
about,  and  as  delighted  as  though  they  were  all 
her  own  children,  told  him  to  come  into  the 
property-room,  where  the  children  were,  and 
which  had  been  changed  into  a  dressing-room 
that  they  might  be  by  themselves.  The  six 
little  girls  were  in  six  different  states  of  disha- 

10 


HER  FIRST  APPEARANCE 

bille,  but  they  were  too  little  to  mind  that,  and 
Van  Bibber  was  too  polite  to  observe  it. 

"This  is  the  little  girl,  sir/*  said  the  wardrobe 
woman,  excitedly,  proud  at  being  the  means  of 
bringing  together  two  such  prominent  people. 
"Her  name  is  Madeline.  Speak  to  the  gentle 
man,  Madeline;  he  wants  to  tell  you  what  a 
great  big  hit  youse  made." 

The  little  girl  was  seated  on  one  of  the  cush 
ions  of  a  double  throne  so  high  from  the  ground 
that  the  young  woman  who  was  pulling  off  the 
child's  silk  stockings  and  putting  woollen  ones 
on  in  their  place  did  so  without  stooping.  The 
young  woman  looked  at  Van  Bibber  and  nod 
ded  somewhat  doubtfully  and  ungraciously,  and 
Van  Bibber  turned  to  the  little  girl  in  prefer 
ence.  The  young  woman's  face  was  one  of  a 
type  that  was  too  familiar  to  be  pleasant. 

He  took  the  Littlest  Girl's  small  hand  in  his 
and  shook  it  solemnly,  and  said,  "I  am  very 
glad  to  know  you.  Can  I  sit  up  here  beside 
you,  or  do  you  rule  alone?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am— yes,  sir,"  answered  the  little  girl. 

Van  Bibber  put  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  the 
throne  and  vaulted  up  beside  the  girl,  and 
pulled  out  the  flower  in  his  button-hole  and 
gave  it  to  her. 

"Now,"  prompted  the  wardrobe  woman, 
"what  do  you  say  to  the  gentleman?" 

ii 


HER  FIRST  APPEARANCE 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  stammered  the  little  girl. 

"She  is  not  much  used  to  gentlemen's  so 
ciety/*  explained  the  woman  who  was  pulling 
on  the  stockings. 

"I  see,"  said  Van  Bibber.  He  did  not  know 
exactly  what  to  say  next.  And  yet  he  wanted 
to  talk  to  the  child  very  much,  so  much  more 
than  he  generally  wanted  to  talk  to  most  young 
women,  who  showed  no  hesitation  in  talking 
to  him.  With  them  he  had  no  difficulty  what 
soever.  There  was  a  doll  lying  on  the  top  of  a 
chest  near  them,  and  he  picked  this  up  and 
surveyed  it  critically.  "Is  this  your  doll?"  he 
asked. 

"No,"  said  Madeline,  pointing  to  one  of  the 
children,  who  was  much  taller  than  herself;  "it's 
'at  'ittle  durPs.  My  doll  he's  dead." 

"Dear  me!"  said  Van  Bibber.  He  made  a 
mental  note  to  get  a  live  one  in  the  morning, 
and  then  he  said:  "That's  very  sad.  But  dead 
dolls  do  come  to  life." 

The  little  girl  looked  up  at  him,  and  surveyed 
him  intently  and  critically,  and  then  smiled, 
with  the  dimples  showing,  as  much  as  to  say 
that  she  understood  him  and  approved  of  him 
entirely.  Van  Bibber  answered  this  sign  lan 
guage  by  taking  Madeline's  hand  in  his  and 
asking  her  how  she  liked  being  a  great  actress, 
and  how  soon  she  would  begin  to  storm  because 

12 


"Can  I  sit  up  here  beside  you,  or  do  you  rule 
alone?" 


HER   FIRST  APPEARANCE 

that  photographer  hadn't  sent  the  proofs.  The 
young  woman  understood  this,  and  deigned  to 
smile  at  it,  but  Madeline  yawned  a  very  polite 
and  sleepy  yawn,  and  closed  her  eyes.  Van 
Bibber  moved  up  closer,  and  she  leaned  over 
until  her  bare  shoulder  touched  his  arm,  and 
while  the  woman  buttoned  on  her  absurdly 
small  shoes,  she  let  her  curly  head  fall  on  his 
elbow  and  rest  there.  Any  number  of  people 
had  shown  confidence  in  Van  Bibber — not  in 
that  form  exactly,  but  in  the  same  spirit — and 
though  he  was  used  to  being  trusted,  he  felt  a 
sharp  thrill  of  pleasure  at  the  touch  of  the 
child's  head  on  his  arm,  and  in  the  warm  clasp 
of  her  fingers  around  his.  And  he  was  conscious 
of  a  keen  sense  of  pity  and  sorrow  for  her  rising 
in  him,  which  he  crushed  by  thinking  that  it 
was  entirely  wasted,  and  that  the  child  was 
probably  perfectly  and  ignorantly  happy, 

"Look  at  that,  now,"  said  the  wardrobe 
woman,  catching  sight  of  the  child's  closed  eye 
lids;  "just  look  at  the  rest  of  the  little  dears, 
all  that  excited  they  can't  stand  still  to  get 
their  hats  on,  and  she  just  as  unconcerned  as 
you  please,  and  after  making  the  hit  of  the 
piece,  too." 

"She's  not  used  to  it,  you  see,"  said  the 
young  woman,  knowingly;  "she  don't  know 
what  it  means.  It's  just  that  much  play  to  her." 

13 


HER   FIRST  APPEARANCE 

This  last  was  said  with  a  questioning  glance 
at  Van  Bibber,  in  whom  she  still  feared  to 
find  the  disguised  agent  of  a  Children's  Aid 
Society.  Van  Bibber  only  nodded  in  reply,  and 
did  not  answer  her,  because  he  found  he  could 
not  very  well,  for  he  was  looking  a  long  way 
ahead  at  what  the  future  was  to  bring  to  the 
confiding  little  being  at  his  side,  and  of  the  evil 
knowledge  and  temptations  that  would  mar  the 
beauty  of  her  quaintly  sweet  face,  and  its 
strange  mark  of  gentleness  and  refinement. 
Outside  he  could  hear  his  friend  Lester  shouting 
the  refrain  of  his  new  topical  song,  and  the 
laughter  and  the  hand-clapping  came  in  through 
the  wings  and  open  door,  broken  but  tumul 
tuous. 

"Does  she  come  of  professional  people?"  Van 
Bibber  asked,  dropping  into  the  vernacular. 
He  spoke  softly,  not  so  much  that  he  might  not 
disturb  the  child,  but  that  she  might  not  under 
stand  what  he  said. 

"Yes,"  the  woman  answered,  shortly,  and 
bent  her  head  to  smooth  out  the  child's  stage 
dress  across  her  knees. 

Van  Bibber  touched  the  little  girl's  head 
with  his  hand  and  found  that  she  was  asleep, 
and  so  let  his  hand  rest  there,  with  the  curls 
between  his  fingers.  "Are — are  you  her  moth 
er?"  he  asked,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  his 

14 


HER   FIRST  APPEARANCE 

head.  He  felt  quite  confident  she  was  not;  at 
least,  he  hoped  not. 

The  woman  shook  her  head.     "No,"  she  said. 

"Who  is  her  mother?" 

The  woman  looked  at  the  sleeping  child  and 
then  up  at  him  almost  defiantly.  "Ida  Clare 
was  her  mother,"  she  said. 

Van  Bibber's  protecting  hand  left  the  child 
as  suddenly  as  though  something  had  burned 
it,  and  he  drew  back  so  quickly  that  her  head 
slipped  from  his  arm,  and  she  awoke  and  raised 
her  eyes  and  looked  up  at  him  questioningly. 
He  looked  back  at  her  with  a  glance  of  the 
strangest  concern  and  of  the  deepest  pity. 
Then  he  stooped  and  drew  her  toward  him 
very  tenderly,  put  her  head  back  in  the  corner 
of  his  arm,  and  watched  her  in  silence  while 
she  smiled  drowsily  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

"And  who  takes  care  of  her  now?"  he  asked. 

The  woman  straightened  herself  and  seemed 
relieved.  She  saw  that  the  stranger  had  recog 
nized  the  child's  pedigree  and  knew  her  story, 
and  that  he  was  not  going  to  comment  on  it. 
"I  do,"  she  said.  "After  the  divorce  Ida  came 
to  me,"  she  said,  speaking  more  freely.  "I 
used  to  be  in  her  company  when  she  was  doing 
'Aladdin,'  and  then  when  I  left  the  stage  and 
started  to  keep  an  actors'  boarding-house,  she 
came  to  me.  She  lived  on  with  us  a  year, 

15 


HER   FIRST  APPEARANCE 

until  she  died,  and  she  made  me  the  guardian 
of  the  child.  I  train  children  for  the  stage, 
you  know,  me  and  my  sister,  Ada  Dyer;  you've 
heard  of  her,  I  guess.  The  courts  pay  us  for 
her  keep,  but  it  isn't  much,  and  I'm  expecting 
to  get  what  I  spent  on  her  from  what  she  makes 
on  the  stage.  Two  of  them  other  children  are 
my  pupils;  but  they  can't  touch  Madie.  She  is 
a  better  dancer  an*  singer  than  any  of  them. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  Society  keeping  her 
back,  she  would  have  been  on  the  stage  two 
years  ago.  She's  great,  she  is.  She'll  be  just 
as  good  as  her  mother  was." 

Van  Bibber  gave  a  little  start,  and  winced 
visibly,  but  turned  it  off  into  a  cough.  "And 
her  father,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "does  he ' 

"Her  father,"  said  the  woman,  tossing  back 
her  head,  "he  looks  after  himself,  he  does.  We 
don't  ask  no  favors  of  him.  She'll  get  along 
without  him  or  his  folks,  thank  you.  Call  him 
a  gentleman?  Nice  gentleman  he  is!"  Then 
she  stopped  abruptly.  "I  guess,  though,  you 
know  him,"  she  added.  "Perhaps  he's  a  friend 
of  yourn?" 

"I  just  know  him,"  said  Van  Bibber,  wear- 

ily. 

He  sat  with  the  child  asleep  beside  him  while 
the  woman  turned  to  the  others  and  dressed 
them  for  the  third  act.  She  explained  that 

16 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

Madie  would  not  appear  in  the  last  act,  only 
the  two  larger  girls,  so  she  let  her  sleep,  with 
the  cape  of  Van  Bibber's  cloak  around  her. 

Van  Bibber  sat  there  for  several  long  minutes 
thinking,  and  then  looked  up  quickly,  and 
dropped  his  eyes  again  as  quickly,  and  said, 
with  an  effort  to  speak  quietly  and  unconcern 
edly:  "If  the  little  girl  is  not  on  in  this  act, 
would  you  mind  if  I  took  her  home?  I  have  a 
cab  at  the  stage-door,  and  she's  so  sleepy  it 
seems  a  pity  to  keep  her  up.  The  sister  you 
spoke  of  or  some  one  could  put  her  to  bed." 

;'Yes,"  the  woman  said,  doubtfully,  "Ada's 
home.  Yes,  you  can  take  her  around,  if  you 
want  to." 

She  gave  him  the  address,  and  he  sprang 
down  to  the  floor,  and  gathered  the  child  up  in 
his  arms  and  stepped  out  on  the  stage.  The 
prima  donna  had  the  centre  of  it  to  herself  at 
that  moment,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  company 
were  waiting  to  go  on;  but  when  they  saw  the 
little  girl  in  Van  Bibber's  arms  they  made  a 
rush  at  her,  and  the  girls  leaned  over  and  kissed 
her  with  a  great  show  of  rapture  and  with  many 
gasps  of  delight. 

"Don't,"  said  Van  Bibber,  he  could  not  tell 
just  why.  "Don't." 

"Why  not?"  asked  one  of  the  girls,  looking 
up  at  him  sharply. 

17 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

"She  was  asleep;  you've  wakened  her,"  he 
said,  gently. 

But  he  knew  that  was  not  the  reason.  He 
stepped  into  the  cab  at  the  stage  entrance,  and 
put  the  child  carefully  down  in  one  corner. 
Then  he  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  to  see 
that  there  was  no  one  near  enough  to  hear  him, 
and  said  to  the  driver,  "To  the  Berkeley  Flats, 
on  Fifth  Avenue."  He  picked  the  child  up 
gently  in  his  arms  as  the  carriage  started,  and 
sat  looking  out  thoughtfully  and  anxiously  as 
they  flashed  past  the  lighted  shop-windows  on 
Broadway.  He  was  far  from  certain  of  this 
errand,  and  nervous  with  doubt,  but  he  reas 
sured  himself  that  he  was  acting  on  impulse, 
and  that  his  impulses  were  so  often  good.  The 
hall-boy  at  the  Berkeley  said,  yes,  Mr.  Caruth- 
ers  was  in,  and  Van  Bibber  gave  a  quick  sigh 
of  relief.  He  took  this  as  an  omen  that  his  im 
pulse  was  a  good  one.  The  young  English  ser 
vant  who  opened  the  hall  door  to  Mr.  Caruth- 
ers's  apartment  suppressed  his  surprise  with  an 
effort,  and  watched  Van  Bibber  with  alarm  as 
he  laid  the  child  on  the  divan  in  the  hall,  and 
pulled  a  covert  coat  from  the  rack  to  throw 
over  her. 

"Just  say  Mr.  Van  Bibber  would  like  to  see 
him,"  he  said,  "and  you  need  not  speak  of  the 
little  girl  having  come  with  me." 

18 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

She  was  still  sleeping,  and  Van  Bibber  turned 
down  the  light  in  the  hall,  and  stood  looking 
down  at  her  gravely  while  the  servant  went  to 
speak  to  his  master. 

"Will  you  come  this  way,  please,  sir?"  he 
said. 

"You  had  better  stay  out  here,"  said  Van 
Bibber,  "and  come  and  tell  me  if  she  wakes." 

Mr.  Caruthers  was  standing  by  the  mantel 
over  the  empty  fireplace,  wrapped  in  a  long, 
loose  dressing-gown  which  he  was  tying  around 
him  as  Van  Bibber  entered.  He  was  partly 
undressed,  and  had  been  just  on  the  point  of 
getting  into  bed.  Mr.  Caruthers  was  a  tall, 
handsome  man,  with  dark  reddish  hair,  turning 
below  the  temples  into  gray;  his  mustache  was 
quite  white,  and  his  eyes  and  face  showed  the 
signs  of  either  dissipation  or  of  great  trouble, 
or  of  both.  But  even  in  the  formless  dressing- 
gown  he  had  the  look  and  the  confident  bearing 
of  a  gentleman,  or,  at  least,  of  the  man  of  the 
world.  The  room  was  very  rich-looking,  and 
was  filled  with  the  medley  of  a  man's  choice  of 
good  paintings  and  fine  china,  and  papered 
with  irregular  rows  of  original  drawings  and 
signed  etchings.  The  windows  were  open,  and 
the  lights  were  turned  very  low,  so  that  Van 
Bibber  could  see  the  many  gas  lamps  and  the 
dark  roofs  of  Broadway  and  the  Avenue  where 

19 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

they  crossed  a  few  blocks  off,  and  the  bunches 
of  light  on  the  Madison  Square  Garden,  and  to 
the  lights  on  the  boats  of  the  East  River.  From 
below  in  the  streets  came  the  rattle  of  hurrying 
omnibuses  and  the  rush  of  the  hansom  cabs. 
If  Mr.  Caruthers  was  surprised  at  this  late 
visit,  he  hid  it,  and  came  forward  to  receive  his 
caller  as  if  his  presence  were  expected. 

"Excuse  my  costume,  will  you?"  he  said. 
"I  turned  in  rather  early  to-night,  it  was  so 
hot."  He  pointed  to  a  decanter  and  some  soda 
bottles  on  the  table  and  a  bowl  of  ice,  and 
asked,  "Will  you  have  some  of  this?"  And 
while  he  opened  one  of  the  bottles,  he  watched 
Van  Bibber's  face  as  though  he  were  curious  to 
have  him  explain  the  object  of  his  visit. 

"No,  I  think  not,  thank  you,"  said  the 
younger  man.  He  touched  his  forehead  with 
his  handkerchief  nervously.  "Yes,  it  is  hot," 
he  said. 

Mr.  Caruthers  filled  a  glass  with  ice  and 
brandy  and  soda,  and  walked  back  to  his  place 
by  the  mantel,  on  which  he  rested  his  arm, 
while  he  clinked  the  ice  in  the  glass  and  looked 
down  into  it. 

"I  was  at  the  first  night  of  'The  Sultana'  this 
evening,"  said  Van  Bibber,  slowly  and  uncer 
tainly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  assented  the  elder  man,  politely, 
20 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

and   tasting   his   drink.     "Lester's    new   piece. 
Was  it  any  good?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "Yes,  I 
think  it  was.  I  didn't  see  it  from  the  front. 
There  were  a  lot  of  children  in  it — little  ones; 
they  danced  and  sang,  and  made  a  great  hit. 
One  of  them  had  never  been  on  the  stage  before. 
It  was  her  first  appearance." 

He  was  turning  one  of  the  glasses  around  be 
tween  his  fingers  as  he  spoke.  He  stopped,  and 
poured  out  some  of  the  soda,  and  drank  it  down 
in  a  gulp,  and  then  continued  turning  the  empty 
glass  between  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  it  is  a  great 
pity."  He  looked  up  interrogatively  at  the 
other  man,  but  Mr.  Caruthers  met  his  glance 
without  any  returning  show  of  interest, 
say,"  repeated  Van  Bibber — "I  say  it  seems  a 
pity  that  a  child  like  that  should  be  allowed  to 
go  on  in  that  business.  A  grown  woman  can 
go  into  it  with  her  eyes  open,  or  a  girl  who  has 
had  decent  training  can  too.  But  it's  different 
with  a  child.  She  has  no  choice  in  the  matter; 
they  don't  ask  her  permission;  and  she  isn't 
old  enough  to  know  what  it  means;  and  she 
gets  used  to  it  and  fond  of  it  before  she  grows 
to  know  what  the  danger  is.  And  then  it's  too 
late.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  there  was  any 
one  who  had  a  right  to  stop  it,  it  would  be  a 

21 


HER  FIRST   APPEARANCE 

very  good  thing  to  let  that  person  know  about 
her— about  this  child,  I  mean;  the  one  who 
made  the  hit — before  it  was  too  late.  It  seems 
to  me  a  responsibility  I  wouldn't  care  to  take 
myself.  I  wouldn't  care  to  think  that  I  had 
the  chance  to  stop  it,  and  had  let  the  chance 
go  by.  You  know  what  the  life  is,  and  what 
the  temptation  a  woman — "  Van  Bibber  stopped 
with  a  gasp  of  concern,  and  added,  hurriedly, 
"I  mean  we  all  know — every  man  knows." 

Mr.  Caruthers  was  looking  at  him  with  his 
lips  pressed  closely  together,  and  his  eyebrows 
drawn  into  the  shape  of  the  letter  V.  He 
leaned  forward,  and  looked  at  Van  Bibber  in 
tently. 

"What  is  all  this  about?"  he  asked.  "Did 
you  come  here,  Mr.  Van  Bibber,  simply  to  tell 
me  this?  What  have  you  to  do  with  it?  What 
have  I  to  do  with  it?  Why  did  you  come?" 

"Because  of  the  child." 

"What  child?" 

"Your  child,"  said  Van  Bibber. 

Young  Van  Bibber  was  quite  prepared  for  an 
outbreak  of  some  sort,  and  mentally  braced  him 
self  to  receive  it.  He  rapidly  assured  himself 
that  this  man  had  every  reason  to  be  angry,  and 
that  he,  if  he  meant  to  accomplish  anything, 
had  every  reason  to  be  considerate  and  patient. 
So  he  faced  Mr.  Caruthers  with  shoulders 

22 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

squared,  as  though  it  were  a  physical  shock  he 
had  to  stand  against,  and  in  consequence  he 
was  quite  unprepared  for  what  followed.  For 
Mr.  Caruthers  raised  his  face  without  a  trace 
of  feeling  in  it,  and,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on 
the  glass  in  his  hand,  set  it  carefully  down  on 
the  mantel  beside  him,  and  girded  himself  about 
with  the  rope  of  his  robe.  When  he  spoke,  it 
was  in  a  tone  of  quiet  politeness. 

"Mr.  Van  Bibber,"  he  began,  "y°u  are  a 
very  brave  young  man.  You  have  dared  to 
say  to  me  what  those  who  are  my  best  friends 
—what  even  my  own  family  would  not  care  to 
say.  They  are  afraid  it  might  hurt  me,  I  sup 
pose.  They  have  some  absurd  regard  for  my 
feelings;  they  hesitate  to  touch  upon  a  subject 
which  in  no  way  concerns  them,  and  which 
they  know  must  be  very  painful  to  me.  But 
you  have  the  courage  of  your  convictions;  you 
have  no  compunctions  about  tearing  open  old 
wounds;  and  you  come  here,  unasked  and  un 
invited,  to  let  me  know  what  you  think  of  my 
conduct,  to  let  me  understand  that  it  does  not 
agree  with  your  own  ideas  of  what  I  ought  to 
do,  and  to  tell  me  how  I,  who  am  old  enough 
to  be  your  father,  should  behave.  You  have 
rushed  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,  Mr.  Van 
Bibber,  to  show  me  the  error  of  my  ways.  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  thank  you  for  it;  but  I 

23 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

have  always  said  that  it  is  not  the  wicked  people 
who  are  to  be  feared  in  this  world,  or  who  do 
the  most  t  harm.  We  know  them;  we  can  pre 
pare  for  them,  and  checkmate  them.  It  is  the 
well-meaning  fool  who  makes  all  the  trouble. 
For  no  one  knows  him  until  he  discloses  him 
self,  and  the  mischief  is  done  before  he  can  be 
stopped.  I  think,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say 
so,  that  you  have  demonstrated  my  theory 
pretty  thoroughly,  and  have  done  about  as 
much  needless  harm  for  one  evening  as  you  can 
possibly  wish.  And  so,  if  you  will  excuse  me/* 
he  continued,  sternly,  and  moving  from  his 
place,  "I  will  ask  to  say  good-night,  and  will 
request  of  you  that  you  grow  older  and  wiser 
and  much  more  considerate  before  you  come  to 
see  me  again." 

Van  Bibber  had  flushed  at  Mr.  Caruthers's 
first  words,  and  had  then  grown  somewhat  pale, 
and  straightened  himself  visibly.  He  did  not 
move  when  the  elder  man  had  finished,  but 
cleared  his  throat,  and  then  spoke  with  some 
little  difficulty.  "It  is  very  easy  to  call  a  man 
a  fool,"  he  said,  slowly,  "but  it  is  much  harder 
to  be  called  a  fool  and  not  to  throw  the  other 
man  out  of  the  window.  But  that,  you  see, 
would  not  do  any  good,  and  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you  first.  I  am  quite  clear  in  my  own 
mind  as  to  my  position,  and  I  am  not  going  to 

24 


HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE 

allow  anything  you  have  said  or  can  say  to 
annoy  me  much  until  I  am  through.  There  will 
be  time  enough  to  resent  it  then.  I  am  quite 
well  aware  that  I  did  an  unconventional  thing 
in  coming  here — a  bold  thing  or  a  foolish  thing, 
as  you  choose — but  the  situation  is  pretty  bad, 
and  I  did  as  I  would  have  wished  to  be  done 
by  if  I  had  had  a  child  going  to  the  devil  and 
didn't  know  it.  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
learn  of  it  even  from  a  stranger.  However,"  he 
said,  smiling  grimly,  and  pulling  his  cape  about 
him,  "there  are  other  kindly  disposed  people  in 
the  world  besides  fathers.  There  is  an  aunt, 
perhaps,  or  an  uncle  or  two;  and  sometimes, 
even  to-day,  there  is  the  chance  Samaritan." 

Van  Bibber  picked  up  his  high  hat  from  the 
table,  looked  into  it  critically,  and  settled  it  on 
his  head.  "Good-night,"  he  said,  and  walked 
slowly  toward  the  door.  He  had  his  hand  on 
the  knob,  when  Mr.  Caruthers  raised  his  head. 

"Wait  just  one  minute,  please,  Mr.  Van  Bib 
ber?"  asked  Mr.  Caruthers. 

Van  Bibber  stopped  with  a  prompt  obedience 
which  would  have  led  one  to  conclude  that  he 
might  have  put  on  his  hat  only  to  precipitate 
matters. 

"Before  you  go,"  said  Mr.  Caruthers,  grudg 
ingly,  "I  want  to  say — I  want  you  to  under 
stand  my  position." 

25 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Van  Bibber, 
lightly,  opening  the  door. 

"No,  it  is  not  all  right.  One  moment,  please. 
I  do  not  intend  that  you  shall  go  away  from 
here  with  the  idea  that  you  have  tried  to  do 
me  a  service,  and  that  I  have  been  unable  to 
appreciate  it,  and  that  you  are  a  much-abused 
and  much-misunderstood  young  man.  Since 
you  have  done  me  the  honor  to  make  my  affairs 
your  business,  I  would  prefer  that  you  should 
understand  them  fully.  I  do  not  care  to  have 
you  discuss  my  conduct  at  clubs  and  afternoon 
teas  with  young  women  until  you " 

Van  Bibber  drew  in  his  breath  sharply,  with 
a  peculiar  whistling  sound,  and  opened  and  shut 
his  hands.  "Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that  if  I  were 
you,"  he  said,  simply. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  the  older  man  said, 
quickly.  "That  was  a  mistake.  I  was  wrong. 
I  beg  your  pardon.  But  you  have  tried  me 
very  sorely.  You  have  intruded  upon  a  private 
trouble  that  you  ought  to  know  must  be  very 
painful  to  me.  But  I  believe  you  meant  well. 
I  know  you  to  be  a  gentleman,  and  I  am  willing 
to  think  you  acted  on  impulse,  and  that  you 
will  see  to-morrow  what  a  mistake  you  have 
made.  It  is  not  a  thing  I  talk  about;  I  do 
not  speak  of  it  to  my  friends,  and  they  are  far 
too  considerate  to  speak  of  it  to  me.  But  you 

26 


HER   FIRST   APPEARANCE 

have  put  me  on  the  defensive.  You  have  made 
me  out  more  or  less  of  a  brute,  and  I  don't 
intend  to  be  so  far  misunderstood.  There  are 
two  sides  to  every  story,  and  there  is  something 
to  be  said  about  this,  even  for  me." 

He  walked  back  to  his  place  beside  the  man 
tel,  and  put  his  shoulders  against  it,  and  faced 
Van  Bibber,  with  his  fingers  twisted  in  the  cord 
around  his  waist. 

"When  I  married,"  said  Mr.  Caruthers,  "I 
did  so  against  the  wishes  of  my  people  and  the 
advice  of  all  my  friends.  You  know  all  about 
that.  God  help  us!  who  doesn't?"  he  added, 
bitterly.  "It  was  very  rich,  rare  reading  for 
you  and  for  every  one  else  who  saw  the  daily 
papers,  and  we  gave  them  all  they  wanted  of 
it.  I  took  her  out  of  that  life  and  married  her 
because  I  believed  she  was  as  good  a  woman  as 
any  of  those  who  had  never  had  to  work  for 
their  living,  and  I  was  bound  that  my  friends 
and  your  friends  should  recognize  her  and  re 
spect  her  as  my  wife  had  a  right  to  be  respected; 
and  I  took  her  abroad  that  I  might  give  all  you 
sensitive,  fine  people  a  chance  to  get  used  to 
the  idea  of  being  polite  to  a  woman  who  had 
once  been  a  burlesque  actress.  It  began  over 
there  in  Paris.  What  I  went  through  then  no 
one  knows;  but  when  I  came  back — and  I  would 
never  have  come  back  if  she  had  not  made  me 

27 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

— it  was  my  friends  I  had  to  consider,  and  not 
her.  It  was  in  the  blood;  it  was  in  the  life  she 
had  led,  and  in  the  life  men  like  you  and  me 
had  taught  her  to  live.  And  it  had  to  come 


out/ 


The  muscles  of  Mr.  Caruthers's  face  were 
moving,  and  beyond  his  control;  but  Van  Bib 
ber  did  not  see  this,  for  he  was  looking  in 
tently  out  of  the  window,  over  the  roofs  of  the 
city. 

"She  had  every  chance  when  she  married 
me  that  a  woman  ever  had,"  continued  the 
older  man.  "It  only  depended  on  herself.  I 
didn't  try  to  make  a  housewife  of  her  or  a 
drudge.  She  had  all  the  healthy  excitement 
and  all  the  money  she  wanted,  and  she  had  a 
home  here  ready  for  her  whenever  she  was  tired 
of  travelling  about  and  wished  to  settle  down. 
And  I  was — and  a  husband  that  loved  her  as — 
she  had  everything.  Everything  that  a  man's 
whole  thought  and  love  and  money  could  bring 
to  her.  And  you  know  what  she  did." 

He  looked  at  Van  Bibber,  but  Van  Bibber's 
eyes  were  still  turned  toward  the  open  window 
and  the  night. 

"And  after  the  divorce — and  she  was  free  to 
go  where  she  pleased,  and  to  live  as  she  pleased 
and  with  whom  she  pleased,  without  bringing 
disgrace  on  a  husband  who  honestly  loved  her 

28 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

— I  swore  to  my  God  that  I  would  never  see 
her  nor  her  child  again.  And  I  never  saw  her 
again,  not  even  when  she  died.  I  loved  the 
mother,  and  she  deceived  me  and  disgraced  me 
and  broke  my  heart,  and  I  only  wish  she  had 
killed  me;  and  I  was  beginning  to  love  her  child, 
and  I  vowed  she  should  not  live  to  trick  me 
too.  I  had  suffered  as  no  man  I  know  had 
suffered;  in  a  way  a  boy  like  you  cannot  under 
stand,  and  that  no  one  can  understand  who  has 
not  gone  to  hell  and  been  forced  to  live  after  it. 
And  was  I  to  go  through  that  again?  Was  I 
to  love  and  care  for  and  worship  this  child,  and 
have  her  grow  up  with  all  her  mother's  vanity 
and  animal  nature,  and  have  her  turn  on  me 
some  day  and  show  me  that  what  is  bred  in 
the  bone  must  tell,  and  that  I  was  a  fool  again 
— a  pitiful  fond  fool?  I  could  not  trust  her. 
I  can  never  trust  any  woman  or  child  again, 
and  least  of  all  that  woman's  child.  She  is  as 
dead  to  me  as  though  she  were  buried  with  her 
mother,  and  it  is  nothing  to  me  what  she  is  or 
what  her  life  is.  I  know  in  time  what  it  will 
be.  She  has  begun  earlier  than  I  had  supposed, 
that  is  all;  but  she  is  nothing  to  me."  The  man 
stopped  and  turned  his  back  to  Van  Bibber, 
and  hid  his  head  in  his  hands,  with  his  elbows 
on  the  mantel-piece.  "I  care  too  much,"  he 
said.  "I  cannot  let  it  mean  anything  to  me; 

29 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

when  I  do  care,  it  means  so  much  more  to  me 
than  to  other  men.  They  may  pretend  to 
laugh  and  to  forget  and  to  outgrow  ft,  but  it  is 
not  so  with  me.  It  means  too  much."  He 
took  a  quick  stride  toward  one  of  the  arm 
chairs,  and  threw  himself  into  it.  "Why,  man," 
he  cried,  "I  loved  that  child's  mother  to  the 
day  of  her  death.  I  loved  that  woman  then, 
and,  God  help  me !  I  love  that  woman  still." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  sat 
leaning  forward  and  breathing  heavily  as  he 
rocked  himself  to  and  fro.  Van  Bibber  still 
stood  looking  gravely  out  at  the  lights  that 
picketed  the  black  surface  of  the  city.  He  was 
to  all  appearances  as  unmoved  by  the  outburst 
of  feeling  into  which  the  older  man  had  been 
surprised  as  though  it  had  been  something  in  a 
play.  There  was  an  unbroken  silence  for  a 
moment,  and  then  it  was  Van  Bibber  who  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

"I  came  here,  as  you  say,  on  impulse,"  he 
said;  "but  I  am  glad  I  came,  for  I  have  your 
i  decisive  answer  now  about  the  little  girl.  I 
have  been  thinking,"  he  continued,  slowly, 
"since  you  have  been  speaking,  and  before, 
when  I  first  saw  her  dancing  in  front  of  the  foot 
lights,  when  I  did  not  know  who  she  was,  that 
I  could  give  up  a  horse  or  two,  if  necessary,  and 
support  this  child  instead.  Children  are  worth 

30 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

more  than  horses,  and  a  man  who  saves  a  soul, 
as  it  says" — he  flushed  slightly,  and  looked  up 
with  a  hesitating,  deprecatory  smile — "some 
where,  wipes  out  a  multitude  of  sins.  And  it 
may  be  I'd  like  to  try  and  get  rid  of  some  of 
mine.  I  know  just  where  to  send  her;  I  know 
the  very  place.  It's  down  in  Evergreen  Bay,  on 
Long  Island.  They  are  tenants  of  mine  there, 
and  very  nice  farm  sort  of  people,  who  will  be 
very  good  to  her.  They  wouldn't  know  any 
thing  about  her,  and  she'd  forget  what  little 
she  knows  of  this  present  life  very  soon,  and 
grow  up  with  the  other  children  to  be  one  of 
them;  and  then,  when  she  gets  older  and  be 
comes  a  young  lady,  she  could  go  to  some  school 
— but  that's  a  bit  too  far  ahead  to  plan  for  the 
present;  but  that's  what  I  am  going  to  do, 
though,"  said  the  young  man,  confidently,  and 
as  though  speaking  to  himself.  "That  theatri 
cal  boarding-house  person  could  be  bought  off 
.  easily  enough,"  he  went  on,  quickly,  "and 
'  Lester  won't  mind  letting  her  go  if  I  ask  it,  and 
— and  that's  what  I'll  do.  As  you  say,  it's  a 
good  deal  of  an  experiment,  but  I  think  I'll  run 
the  risk." 

He  walked  quickly  to  the  door  and  disap 
peared  in  the  hall,  and  then  came  back,  kicking 
the  door  open  as  he  returned,  and  holding  the 
child  in  his  arms. 

3* 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

"This  is  she,"  he  said,  quietly.  He  did  not 
look  at  or  notice  the  father,  but  stood,  with  the 
child  asleep  in  the  bend  of  his  left  arm,  gazing 
down  at  her.  "This  is  she,"  he  repeated;  "this 
is  your  child." 

There  was  something  cold  and  satisfied  in 
Van  Bibber's  tone  and  manner,  as  though  he 
were  congratulating  himself  upon  the  engaging 
of  a  new  groom;  something  that  placed  the 
father  entirely  outside  of  it.  He  might  have 
been  a  disinterested  looker-on. 

"She  will  need  to  be  fed  a  bit,"  Van  Bibber 
ran  on,  cheerfully.  "They  did  not  treat  her 
very  well,  I  fancy.  She  is  thin  and  peaked  and 
tired-looking."  He  drew  up  the  loose  sleeve  of 
her  jacket,  and  showed  the  bare  forearm  to  the 
light.  He  put  his  thumb  and  little  finger  about 
it,  and  closed  them  on  it  gently.  "It  is  very 
thin,"  he  said.  "And  under  her  eyes,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  paint,"  he  went  on,  mercilessly, 
"you  could  see  how  deep  the  lines  are.  This 
red  spot  on  her  cheek,"  he  said,  gravely,  "is 
where  Mary  Vane  kissed  her  to-night,  and  this 
is  where  Alma  Stantley  kissed  her,  and  that 
Lee  girl.  You  have  heard  of  them,  perhaps. 
They  will  never  kiss  her  again.  She  is  going  to 
grow  up  a  sweet,  fine,  beautiful  woman — are 
you  not?"  he  said,  gently  drawing  the  child 
higher  up  on  his  shoulder,  until  her  face  touched 

32 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

his,  and  still  keeping  his  eyes  from  the  face  of 
the  older  man.  "She  does  not  look  like  her 
mother,"  he  said;  "she  has  her  father's  auburn 
hair  and  straight  nose  and  finer-cut  lips  and 
chin.  She  looks  very  much  like  her  father.  It 
seems  a  pity,"  he  added,  abruptly.  "She  will 
grow  up,"  he  went  on,  "without  knowing  him, 
or  who  he  is — or  was,  if  he  should  die.  She 
will  never  speak  with  him,  or  see  him,  or  take 
his  hand.  She  may  pass  him  some  day  on  the 
street  and  will  not  know  him,  and  he  will  not 
know  her,  but  she  will  grow  to  be  very  fond  and 
to  be  very  grateful  to  the  simple,  kind-hearted 
old  people  who  will  have  cared  for  her  when 
she  was  a  little  girl." 

The  child  in  his  arms  stirred,  shivered  slightly, 
and  awoke.  The  two  men  watched  her  breath 
lessly,  with  silent  intentness.  She  raised  her 
head  and  stared  around  the  unfamiliar  room 
doubtfully,  then  turned  to  where  her  father 
stood,  looking  at  him  a  moment,  and  passed  him 
by;  and  then,  looking  up  into  Van  Bibber's  face, 
recognized  him,  and  gave  a  gentle,  sleepy  smile, 
and,  with  a  sigh  of  content  and  confidence,  drew 
her  arm  up  closer  around  his  neck,  and  let  her 
head  fall  back  upon  his  breast. 

The  father  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  quick, 
jealous  gasp  of  pain.  "Give  her  to  me!"  he 
said,  fiercely,  under  his  breath,  snatching  her 

33 


HER    FIRST   APPEARANCE 

out  of  Van  Bibber's  arms.  "She  is  mine;  give 
her  to  me!" 

Van  Bibber  closed  the  door  gently  behind 
him,  and  went  jumping  down  the  winding  stairs 
of  the  Berkeley  three  steps  at  a  time. 

And  an  hour  later,  when  the  English  servant 
came  to  his  master's  door,  he  found  him  still 
awake  and  sitting  in  the  dark  by  the  open  win 
dow,  holding  something  in  his  arms  and  look 
ing  out  over  the  sleeping  city. 

"James,"  he  said,  "you  can  make  up  a  place 
for  me  here  on  the  lounge.  Miss  Caruthers, 
my  daughter,  will  sleep  in  my  room  to-night." 


VAN  BIBBER'S  MAN-SERVANT 

VAN  BIBBER'S  man  Walters  was  the  envy  and 
admiration  of  his  friends.  He  was  English,  of 
course,  and  he  had  been  trained  in  the  household 
of  the  Marquis  Bendinot,  and  had  travelled,  in 
his  younger  days,  as  the  valet  of  young  Lord 
Upton.  He  was  now  rather  well  on  in  years, 
although  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  say 
just  how  old  he  was.  Walters  had  a  dignified 
and  repellent  air  about  him,  and  he  brushed  his 
hair  in  such  a  way  as  to  conceal  his  baldness. 

And  when  a  smirking,  slavish  youth  with  red 
cheeks  and  awkward  gestures  turned  up  in  Van 
Bibber's  livery,  his  friends  were  naturally  sur 
prised,  and  asked  how  he  had  come  to  lose 
Walters.  Van  Bibber  could  not  say  exactly,  at 
least  he  could  not  rightly  tell  whether  he  had 
dismissed  Walters  or  Walters  had  dismissed 
himself.  The  facts  of  the  unfortunate  separa 
tion  were  like  this : 

Van  Bibber  gave  a  great  many  dinners  during 
the  course  of  the  season  at  Delmonico's,  dinners 
hardly  formal  enough  to  require  a  private  room, 
and  yet  too  important  to  allow  of  his  running 
the  risk  of  keeping  his  guests  standing  in  the 

35 


VAN  BIBBER'S  MAN-SERVANT 

hall  waiting  for  a  vacant  table.  So  he  con 
ceived  the  idea  of  sending  Walters  over  about 
half-past  six  to  keep  a  table  for  him.  As  every 
body  knows,  you  can  hold  a  table  yourself  at 
Delmonico's  for  any  length  of  time  until  the 
'  other  guests  arrive,  but  the  rule  is  very  strict 
*  about  servants.  Because,  as  the  head  waiter 
will  tell  you,  if  servants  were  allowed  to  reserve 
a  table  during  the  big  rush  at  seven  o'clock, 
why  not  messenger  boys?  And  it  would  cer 
tainly  never  do  to  have  half  a  dozen  large  tables 
securely  held  by  minute  messengers  while  the 
hungry  and  impatient  waited  their  turn  at  the 
door. 

But  Walters  looked  as  much  like  a  gentleman 
as  did  many  of  the  diners;  and  when  he  seated 
himself  at  the  largest  table  and  told  the  waiter 
to  serve  for  a  party  of  eight  or  ten,  he  did  it 
with  such  an  air  that  the  head  waiter  came  over 
himself  and  took  the  orders.  Walters  knew 
quite  as  much  about  ordering  a  dinner  as  did 
his  master;  and  when  Van  Bibber  was  too  tired 
to  make  out  the  menu,  Walters  would  look  over 
the  card  himself  and  order  the  proper  wines  and 
side  dishes;  and  with  such  a  carelessly  severe 
air  and  in  such  a  masterly  manner  did  he  dis 
charge  this  high  function  that  the  waiters  looked 
upon  him  with  much  respect. 

But  respect  even  from  your  equals  and  the 


VAN  BIBBER'S  MAN-SERVANT 

satisfaction  of  having  your  fellow-servants  mis 
take  you  for  a  member  of  the  Few  Hundred 
are  not  enough.  Walters  wanted  more.  He 
wanted  the  further  satisfaction  of  enjoying  the 
delicious  dishes  he  had  ordered;  of  sitting  as  a 
coequal  with  the  people  for  whom  he  had  kept 
a  place;  of  completing  the  deception  he  prac 
tised  only  up  to  the  point  where  it  became  most 
interesting. 

It  certainly  was  trying  to  have  to  rise  with  a 
subservient  and  unobtrusive  bow  and  glide  out 
unnoticed  by  the  real  guests  when  they  arrived; 
to  have  to  relinquish  the  feast  just  when  the 
feast  should  begin.  It  would  not  be  pleasant, 
certainly,  to  sit  for  an  hour  at  a  big  empty  table, 
ordering  dishes  fit  only  for  epicures,  and  then, 
just  as  the  waiters  bore  down  with  the  Little 
Neck  clams,  so  nicely  iced  and  so  cool  and  bitter- 
looking,  to  have  to  rise  and  go  out  into  the 
street  to  a  table  d'hote  around  the  corner. 

This  was  Walters's  state  of  mind  when  Mr, 
Van  Bibber  told  him  for  the  hundredth  time  to 
keep  a  table  for  him  for  three  at  Delmonico's. 
Walters  wrapped  his  severe  figure  in  a  frock- 
coat  and  brushed  his  hair,  and  allowed  himself 
the  dignity  of  a  walking-stick.  He  would  have 
liked  to  act  as  a  substitute  in  an  evening  dress- 
suit,  but  Van  Bibber  would  not  have  allowed  it. 
So  Walters  walked  over  to  Delmonico's  and 

37 


VAN  BIBBER'S  MAN-SERVANT 

took  a  table  near  a  window,  and  said  that  the 
other  gentlemen  would  arrive  later.  Then  he 
looked  at  his  watch  and  ordered  the  dinner.  It 
was  just  the  sort  of  dinner  he  would  have 
ordered  had  he  ordered  it  for  himself  at  some 
one  else's  expense.  He  suggested  Little  Neck 
clams  first,  with  chablis,  and  pea-soup,  and 
caviare  on  toast,  before  the  oyster  crabs,  with 
Johannisberger  Cabinet;  then  an  entree  of  calves' 
brains  and  rice;  then  no  roast,  but  a  bird,  cold 
asparagus  with  French  dressing,  Camembert 
cheese,  and  Turkish  coffee.  As  there  were  to 
be  no  women,  he  omitted  the  sweets  and  added 
three  other  wines  to  follow  the  white  wine.  It 
struck  him  as  a  particularly  well-chosen  din 
ner,  and  the  longer  he  sat  and  thought  about  it 
the  more  he  wished  he  were  to  test  its  excel 
lence.  And  then  the  people  all  around  him 
were  so  bright  and  happy,  and  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  what  they  had  ordered  with  such  a 
refinement  of  zest  that  he  felt  he  would  give  a 
great  deal  could  he  just  sit  there  as  one  of  them 
for  a  brief  hour. 

At  that  moment  the  servant  deferentially 
handed  him  a  note  which  a  messenger  boy  had 
brought.  It  said: 

Dinner  off  called  out  town  send  clothes  and  things  after 
me  to  Young's  Boston. 

VAN  BIBBER. 

38 


VAN  BIBBER'S  MAN-SERVANT 

Walters  rose  involuntarily,  and  then  sat  still 
to  think  about  it.  He  would  have  to  counter 
mand  the  dinner  which  he  had  ordered  over 
half  an  hour  before,  and  he  would  have  to  ex 
plain  who  he  was  to  those  other  servants  who 
had  always  regarded  him  as  such  a  great  gentle 
man.  It  was  very  hard. 

And  then  Walters  was  tempted.  He  was  a 
very  good  servant,  and  he  knew  his  place  as 
only  an  English  servant  can,  and  he  had  always 
accepted  it,  but  to-night  he  was  tempted — and 
he  fell.  He  met  the  waiter's  anxious  look  with 
a  grave  smile. 

"The  other  gentlemen  will  not  be  with  me 
to-night,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  note.  "But 
I  will  dine  here  as  I  intended.  You  can  serve 
for  one." 

That  was  perhaps  the  proudest  night  in  the 
history  of  Walters.  He  had  always  felt  that  he 
was  born  out  of  his  proper  sphere,  and  to-night 
he  was  assured  of  it.  He  was  a  little  nervous 
at  first,  lest  some  of  Van  Bibber's  friends  should 
come  in  and  recognize  him;  but  as  the  dinner 
progressed  and  the  warm  odor  of  the  dishes 
touched  his  sense,  and  the  rich  wines  ran  through 
his  veins,  and  the  women  around  him  smiled 
and  bent  and  moved  like  beautiful  birds  of 
beautiful  plumage,  he  became  content,  grandly 
content;  and  he  half  closed  his  eyes  and  imagined 

39 


VAN    BIBBER'S   MAN-SERVANT 

he  was  giving  a  dinner  to  everybody  in  the 
place.  Vain  and  idle  thoughts  came  to  him 
and  went  again,  and  he  eyed  the  others  about 
him  calmly  and  with  polite  courtesy,  as  they 
did  him,  and  he  felt  that  if  he  must  later  pay 
for  this  moment  it  was  worth  the  paying. 

Then  he  gave  the  waiter  a  couple  of  dollars 
out  of  his  own  pocket  and  wrote  Van  Bibber's 
name  on  the  check,  and  walked  in  state  into 
the  co/e,  where  he  ordered  a  green  mint  and  a 
heavy,  black,  and  expensive  cigar,  and  seated 
himself  at  the  window,  where  he  felt  that  he 
should  always  have  sat  if  the  fates  had  been 
just.  The  smoke  hung  in  light  clouds  about 
him,  and  the  lights  shone  and  glistened  on  the 
white  cloths  and  the  broad  shirt-fronts  of  the 
smart  young  men  and  distinguished  foreign- 
looking  older  men  at  the  surrounding  tables. 

And  then,  in  the  midst  of  his  dreamings,  he 
heard  the  soft,  careless  drawl  of  his  master, 
which  sounded  at  that  time  and  in  that  place 
like  the  awful  voice  of  a  condemning  judge. 
Van  Bibber  pulled  out  a  chair  and  dropped  into 
it.  His  side  was  toward  Walters,  so  that  he 
did  not  see  him.  He  had  some  men  with  him, 
and  he  was  explaining  how  he  had  missed  his 
train  and  had  come  back  to  find  that  one  of  the 
party  had  eaten  the  dinner  without  him,  and 
he  wondered  who  it  could  be;  and  then  turning 

40 


VAN    BIBBER'S   MAN-SERVANT 

easily  in  his  seat  he  saw  Walters  with  the  green 
mint  and  the  cigar,  trembling  behind  a  copy  of 
the  London  Graphic. 

"Walters!"  said  Van  Bibber,  "what  are  you 
doing  here?" 

Walters  looked  his  guilt  and  rose  stiffly.  He 
began  with  a  feeble  "If  you  please,  sir— 

"Go  back  to  my  rooms  and  wait  for  me 
there,"  said  Van  Bibber,  who  was  £00  decent  a 
fellow  to  scold  a  servant  in  public. 

Walters  rose  and  left  the  half- finished  cigar 
and  the  mint  with  the  ice  melting  in  it  on  the 
table.  His  one  evening  of  sublimity  was  over, 
and  he  walked  away,  bending  before  the  glance 
of  his  young  master  and  the  smiles  of  his  mas 
ter's  friends. 

When  Van  Bibber  came  back  he  found  on  his 
dressing-table  a  note  from  Walters  stating  that 
he  could  not,  of  course,  expect  to  remain  longer 
in  his  service,  and  that  he  left  behind  him  the 
twenty-eight  dollars  which  the  dinner  had  cost. 

"If  he  had  only  gone  off  with  all  my  waist 
coats  and  scarf-pins,  I'd  have  liked  it  better,'* 
said  Van  Bibber,  "than  his  leaving  me  cash  for 
infernal  dinner.  Why,  a  servant  like  Walters 
is  worth  twenty-eight-dollar  dinners — twice  a 
day." 


THE  HUNGRY  MAN  WAS  FED 

YOUNG  Van  Bibber  broke  one  of  his  rules  of 
life  one  day  and  came  down-town.  This  un 
usual  journey  into  the  marts  of  trade  and 
finance  was  in  response  to  a  call  from  his  lawyer, 
who  wanted  his  signature  to  some  papers.  It 
was  five  years  since  Van  Bibber  had  been  south 
of  the  north  side  of  Washington  Square,  except 
as  a  transient  traveller  to  the  ferries  on  the 
elevated  road.  And  as  he  walked  through  the 
City  Hall  Square  he  looked  about  him  at  the 
new  buildings  in  the  air,  and  the  bustle  and 
confusion  of  the  streets,  with  as  much  interest 
as  a  lately  arrived  immigrant. 

He  rather  enjoyed  the  novelty  of  the  situa 
tion,  and  after  he  had  completed  his  business 
at  the  lawyer's  office  he  tried  to  stroll  along 
lower  Broadway  as  he  did  on  the  Avenue. 

But  people  bumped  against  him,  and  carts 
and  drays  tried  to  run  him  down  when  he 
crossed  the  side  streets,  and  those  young  men 
whom  he  knew  seemed  to  be  in  a  great  hurry, 
and  expressed  such  amused  surprise  at  seeing 
him  that  he  felt  very  much  out  of  place  indeed. 

42 


THE  HUNGRY  MAN  WAS   FED 

And  so  he  decided  to  get  back  to  his  club  win 
dow  and  its  quiet  as  soon  as  possible. 

"Hello,  Van  Bibber,"  said  one  of  the  young 
men  who  were  speeding  by,  "what  brings  you 
here?  Have  you  lost  your  way?" 

'"I  think  I  have,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "If 
you'll  kindly  tell  me  how  I  can  get  back  to  civ 
ilization  again,  be  obliged  to  you." 

"Take  the  elevated  from  Park  Place,"  said 
his  friend  from  over  his  shoulder,  as  he  nodded 
and  diyed  into  the  crowd. 

The  visitor  from  up-town  had  not  a  very 
distinct  idea  as  to  where  Park  Place  was,  but 
he  struck  off  Broadway  and  followed  the  line 
of  the  elevated  road  along  Church  Street.  It 
was  at  the  corner  of  Vesey  Street  that  a  miser 
able-looking,  dirty,  and  red-eyed  object  stood 
still  in  his  tracks  and  begged  Van  Bibber  for  a 
few  cents  to  buy  food.  "  I've  come  all  the  way 
from  Chicago,"  said  the  Object,  "and  I  haven't 
tasted  food  for  twenty-four  hours." 

Van  Bibber  drew  away  as  though  the  Object 
had  a  contagious  disease  in  his  rags,  and  handed 
him  a  quarter  without  waiting  to  receive  the 
man's  blessing. 

"Poor  devil!"  said  Van  Bibber.  "Fancy 
going  without  dinner  all  day!"  He  could  not 
fancy  this,  though  he  tried,  and  the  impossibility 
of  it  impressed  him  so  much  that  he  amiably 

43 


THE  HUNGRY  MAN  WAS  FED 

determined  to  go  back  and  hunt  up  the  Object 
and  give  him  more  money.  Van  Bibber's  ideas 
of  a  dinner  were  rather  exalted.  He  did  not 
know  of  places  where  a  quarter  was  good  for  a 
"square  meal,"  including  "one  roast,  three 
vegetables,  and  pie."  He  hardly  considered  a 
quarter  a  sufficiently  large  tip  for  the  waiter 
who  served  the  dinner,  and  decidedly  not 
enough  for  the  dinner  itself.  He  did  not  see 
his  man  at  first,  and  when  he  did  the  man  did 
not  see  him.  Van  Bibber  watched  him  stop 
three  gentlemen,  two  of  whom  gave  him  some 
money,  and  then  the  Object  approached  Van 
Bibber  and  repeated  his  sad  tale  in  a  monotone. 
He  evidently  did  not  recognize  Van  Bibber,  and 
the  clubman  gave  him  a  half-dollar  and  walked 
away,  feeling  that  the  man  must  surely  have 
enough  by  this  time  with  which  to  get  some 
thing  to  eat,  if  only  a  luncheon. 

This  retracing  of  his  footsteps  had  confused 
Van  Bibber,  and  he  made  a  complete  circuit 
of  the  block  before  he  discovered  that  he  had 
lost  his  bearings.  He  was  standing  just  where 
he  had  started,  and  gazing  along  the  line  of  the 
elevated  road,  looking  for  a  station,  when  the 
familiar  accents  of  the  Object  again  saluted  him. 

When  Van  Bibber  faced  him  the  beggar  looked 
uneasy.  He  was  not  sure  whether  or  not  he 
Lad  approached  this  particular  gentleman  be- 

44 


fore,  but  Van  Bibber  conceived  an  idea  of  much 
subtlety,  and  deceived  the  Object  by  again  put 
ting  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"Nothing  to  eat  for  twenty-four  hours! 
Dear  me!"  drawled  the  clubman,  sympatheti 
cally.  "Haven't  you  any  money,  either?" 

"Not  a  cent,"  groaned  the  Object,  "an*  Pm 
just  faint  for  food,  sir.  S'help  me.  I  hate  to 
beg,  sir.  It  isn't  the  money  I  want,  it's  jest 
food.  I'm  starvin',  sir." 

"Well,"  said  Van  Bibber,  suddenly,  "if  it  is 
just  something  to  eat  you  want,  come  in  here 
with  me  and  I'll  give  you  your  breakfast."  But 
the  man  held  back  and  began  to  whine  and 
complain  that  they  wouldn't  let  the  likes  of 
him  in  such  a  fine  place. 

"Oh,  yes,  they  will,"  said  Van  Bibber,  glanc 
ing  at  the  bill  of  fare  in  front  of  the  place.  "  It 
seems  to  be  extremely  cheap.  Beefsteak  fif 
teen  cents,  for  instance.  Go  in,"  he  added, 
and  there  was  something  in  his  tone  which 
made  the  Object  move  ungraciously  into  the 
eating-house. 

It  was  a  very  queer  place,  Van  Bibber  thought, 
and  the  people  stared  very  hard  at  him  and 
his  gloves  and  the  gardenia  in  his  coat  and  at 
the  tramp  accompanying  him. 

"You  ain't  going  to  eat  two  breakfasts,  are 
yer?"  asked  one  of  the  very  tough-looking 

45 


THE  HUNGRY  MAN  WAS   FED 

waiters  of  the  Object.  The  Object  looked  un 
easy  and  Van  Bibber,  who  stood  beside  his 
chair,  smiled  in  triumph. 

"  You're  mistaken,"  he  said  to  the  waiter. 
"This  gentleman  is  starving;  he  has  not  tasted 
food  for  twenty-four  hours.  Give  him  what 
ever  he  asks  for!" 

The  Object  scowled  and  the  waiter  grinned 
behind  his  tin  tray,  and  had  the  impudence  to 
wink  at  Van  Bibber,  who  recovered  from  this 
in  time  to  give  the  man  a  half-dollar  and  so  to 
make  of  him  a  friend  for  life.  The  Object  or 
dered  milk,  but  Van  Bibber  protested  and 
ordered  two  beefsteaks  and  fried  potatoes,  hot 
rolls  and  two  omelets,  coffee,  and  ham  with 
bacon. 

"Holy  smoke!  watcher  think  I  am?"  yelled 
the  Object,  in  desperation. 

"Hungry,"  said  Van  Bibber,  very  gently. 
"Or  else  an  impostor.  And,  you  know,  if  you 
should  happen  to  be  the  latter  I  should  have 
to  hand  you  over  to  the  police." 

Van  Bibber  leaned  easily  against  the  wall  and 
read  the  signs  about  him,  and  kept  one  eye  on 
a  policeman  across  the  street.  The  Object  was 
choking  and  cursing  through  his  breakfast.  It 
did  not  seem  to  agree  with  him.  Whenever  he 
stopped  Van  Bibber  would  point  with  his  stick 
to  a  still  unfinished  dish,  and  the  Object,  after 

46 


THE  HUNGRY  MAN  WAS   FED 

a  husky  protest,  would  attack  it  as  though  it 
were  poison.  The  people  sitting  about  were 
laughing,  and  the  proprietor  behind  the  desk 
smiling  grimly. 

"There,  darn  ye!"  said  the  Object  at  last. 
"I've  eat  all  I  can  eat  for  a  year.  You  think 
you're  mighty  smart,  don't  ye?  But  if  you 
choose  to  pay  that  high  for  your  fun,  I  s'pose 
you  can  afford  it.  Only  don't  let  me  catch 
you  around  these  streets  after  dark,  that's 
all." 

And  the  Object  started  off,  shaking  his  fist. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "You 
haven't  paid  them  for  your  breakfast." 

"  Haven't  what ?  "  shouted  the  Object.  "  Paid 
'em !  How  could  I  pay  him  ?  Youse  asked  me 
to  come  in  here  and  eat.  I  didn't  want  no 
breakfast,  did  I  ?  Youse' II  have  to  pay  for  your 
fun  yerself,  or  they'll  throw  yer  out.  Don't  try 
to  be  too  smart." 

"I  gave  you,"  said  Van  Bibber,  slowly,  "sev 
enty-five  cents  with  which  to  buy  a  breakfast. 
This  check  calls  for  eighty-five  cents,  and  ex 
tremely  cheap  it  is,"  he  added,  with  a  bow  to 
the  fat  proprietor.  "Several  other  gentlemen, 
on  your  representation  that  you  were  starving, 
gave  you  other  sums  to  be  expended  on  a  break 
fast.  You  have  the  money  with  you  now.  So 
pay  what  you  owe  at  once,  or  I'll  call  that  officer 

47 


THE  HUNGRY  MAN  WAS   FED 

across  the  street  and  tell  him  what  I  know,  and 
have  you  put  where  you  belong." 

"I'll  see  you  blowed  first!"  gasped  the  Ob 
ject. 

Van  Bibber  turned  to  the  waiter.  "Kindly 
beckon  to  that  officer,"  said  he. 

The  waiter  ran  to  the  door  and  the  Object 
ran  too,  but  the  tough  waiter  grabbed  him  by 
the  back  of  his  neck  and  held  him. 

"Lemme  go!"  yelled  the  Object.  "Lemme 
go  an*  I'll  pay  you." 

Everybody  in  the  place  came  up  now  and 
formed  a  circle  around  the  group  and  watched 
the  Object  count  our  eighty-five  cents  into  the 
waiter's  hand,  which  left  him  just  one  dime  to 
himself. 

"You  have  forgotten  the  waiter  who  served 
you,"  said  Van  Bibber,  severely  pointing  with 
his  stick  at  the  dime. 

"No,  you  don't,"  groaned  the  Object. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Van  Bibber,  "do  the  decent 
thing  now,  or  I'll " 

The  Object  dropped  the  dime  in  the  waiter's 
hand,  and  Van  Bibber,  smiling  and  easy,  made 
his  way  through  the  admiring  crowd  and  out 
into  the  street. 

"I  suspect,"  said  Mr.  Van  Bibber  later  in  the 
day,  when  recounting  his  adventure  to  a  fellow- 
clubman,  "that,  after  I  left,  fellow  tried  to  get 

48 


THE  HUNGRY  MAN  WAS   FED 

tip  back  from  waiter,  for  I  saw  him  come  out 
of  place  very  suddenly,  you  see,  and  without 
touching  pavement  till  he  lit  on  back  of  his 
head  in  gutter.  .  He  was  most  remarkable 


waiter." 


VAN  BIBBER  AT  THE  RACES 

YOUNG  Van  Bibber  had  never  spent  a  Fourth 
of  July  in  the  city,  as  he  had  always  understood 
it  was  given  over  to  armies  of  small  boys  on 
that  day,  who  sat  on  all  the  curbstones  and  set 
off  fire-crackers,  and  that  the  thermometer  al 
ways  showed  ninety  degrees  in  the  shade,  and 
cannon  boomed  and  bells  rang  from  daybreak 
to  midnight.  He  had  refused  all  invitations  to 
join  any  Fourth-of-July  parties  at  the  seashore 
or  on  the  Sound  or  at  Tuxedo,  because  he  ex 
pected  his  people  home  from  Europe,  and  had 
to  be  in  New  York  to  meet  them.  He  was 
accordingly  greatly  annoyed  when  he  received 
a  telegram  saying  they  would  sail  in  a  boat  a 
week  later. 

He  finished  his  coffee  at  the  club  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  Fourth  about  ten  o'clock,  in  absolute 
solitude,  and  with  no  one  to  expect  and  nothing 
to  anticipate;  so  he  asked  for  a  morning  paper 
and  looked  up  the  amusements  offered  for  the 
Fourth.  There  were  plenty  of  excursions  with 
brass  bands,  and  refreshments  served  on  board, 
baseball  matches  by  the  hundred,  athletic  meet 
ings  and  picnics  by  the  dozen,  but  nothing  that 
seemed  to  exactly  please  him. 

5° 


VAN   BIBBER  AT  THE  RACES 

The  races  sounded  attractive,  but  then  he 
always  lost  such  a  lot  of  money,  and  the  crowd 
pushed  so,  and  the  sun  and  the  excitement  made 
his  head  ache  between  the  eyes  and  spoiled  his 
appetite  for  dinner.  He  had  vowed  again  and 
again  that  he  would  not  go  to  the  races;  but 
as  the  day  wore  on  and  the  solitude  of  the  club 
became  oppressive  and  the  silence  of  the  Avenue 
began  to  tell  on  him,  he  changed  his  mind,  and 
made  his  preparations  accordingly. 

First,  he  sent  out  after  all  the  morning  papers 
and  read  their  tips  on  the  probable  winners. 
Very  few  of  them  agreed,  so  he  took  the  horse 
which  most  of  them  seemed  to  think  was  best, 
and  determined  to  back  it,  no  matter  what 
might  happen,  or  what  new  tips  he  might  get 
later.  Then  he  put  two  hundred  dollars  in  his 
pocket-book  to  bet  with,  and  twenty  dollars 
for  expenses,  and  sent  around  for  his  field- 
glasses. 

He  was  rather  late  in  starting,  and  he  made 
up  his  mind  on  the  way  to  Morris  Park  that  he 
would  be  true  to  the  list  of  winners  he  had 
written  out,  and  not  make  any  side  bets  on  any 
suggestions  or  inside  information  given  him  by 
others.  He  vowed  a  solemn  vow  on  the  rail  of 
the  boat  to  plunge  on  each  of  the  six  horses  he 
had  selected  from  the  newspaper  tips,  and  on 
no  others.  He  hoped  in  this  way  to  win  some- 


VAN   BIBBER  AT  THE   RACES 

thing.  He  did  not  care  so  much  to  win,  but  he 
hated  to  lose.  He  always  felt  so  flat  and  silly 
after  it  was  over;  and  when  it  happened,  as  it 
often  did,  that  he  had  paid  several  hundred 
dollars  for  the  afternoon's  sport,  his  sentiments 
did  him  credit. 

"I  shall  probably,  or  rather  certainly,  be 
tramped  on  and  shoved,"  soliloquized  Van 
Bibber. 

"I  shall  smoke  more  cigars  than  are  good  for 
me,  and  drink  more  than  I  want,  owing  to  the 
unnatural  excitement  and  heat,  and  I  shall  be 
late  for  my  dinner.  And  for  all  this  I  shall 
probably  pay  two  hundred  dollars.  It  really 
seems  as  if  I  were  a  young  man  of  little  intellect, 
and  yet  thousands  of  others  are  going  to  do 
exactly  the  same  thing." 

The  train  was  very  late.  One  of  the  men  in 
front  said  they  would  probably  just  be  able  to 
get  their  money  up  in  time  for  the  first  race. 
A  horse  named  Firefly  was  Van  Bibber's  choice, 
and  he  took  one  hundred  dollars  of  his  two  hun 
dred  to  put  up  on  her.  He  had  it  already  in 
his  hand  when  the  train  reached  the  track,  and 
he  hurried  with  the  rest  toward  the  bookmakers 
to  get  his  one  hundred  on  as  quickly  as  possible. 
But  while  he  was  crossing  the  lawn  back  of  the 
stand,  he  heard  cheers  and  wild  yells  that  told 
him  they  were  running  the  race  at  that  moment. 


VAN  BIBBER  AT  THE  RACES 

"Raceland!"  "Raceland!"  "Raceland  by 
a  length!"  shouted  the  crowd. 

" Who's  second?"  a  fat  man  shouted  at  an 
other  fat  man. 

"Firefly,"  called  back  the  second,  joyously, 
"and  I've  got  her  for  a  place  and  I  win  eight 
dollars." 

"Ah !"  said  Van  Bibber,  as  he  slipped  his  one 
hundred  dollars  back  in  his  pocket,  "good  thing 
I  got  here  a  bit  late." 

"What'd  you  win,  Van  Bibber?"  asked  a 
friend  who  rushed  past  him,  clutching  his  tickets 
as  though  they  were  precious  stones. 

"I  win  one  hundred  dollars,"  answered  Van  kU 
Bibber,  calmly,  as  he  walked  on  up  into  the  *• 
boxes.  It  was  delightfully  cool  up  there,  and 
to  his  satisfaction  and  surprise  he  found  several 
people  there  whom  he  knew.  He  went  into  Her 
box  and  accepted  some  pate  sandwiches  and 
iced  champagne,  and  chatted  and  laughed  with 
Her  so  industriously,  and  so  much  to  the  exclu 
sion  of  all  else,  that  the  horses  were  at  the  start 
ing-post  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  and  he  had 
to  excuse  himself  hurriedly  and  run  to  put  up 
his  money  on  Bugler,  the  second  on  his  list. 
He  decided  that  as  he  had  won  one  hundred 
dollars  on  the  first  race  he  could  afford  to  plunge 
on  this  one,  so  he  counted  out  fifty  more,  and 
putting  this  with  the  original  one  hundred  dol- 

53 


VAN  BIBBER  AT  THE  RACES 

lars,  crowded  into  the  betting-ring  and  said,  "A 
hundred  and  fifty  on  Bugler  straight." 

"Bugler's  just  been  scratched,"  said  the 
bookie,  leaning  over  Van  Bibber's  shoulder  for 
a  greasy  five-dollar  bill. 

"Will  you  play  anything  else?"  he  asked,  as 
the  young  gentleman  stood  there  irresolute. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Van  Bibber,  remem 
bering  his  vow,  and  turning  hastily  away. 
"Well,"  he  mused,  "I'm  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  better  off  than  I  might  have  been  if 
Bugler  hadn't  been  scratched  and  hadn't  won. 
One  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  added  to  one 
hundred  makes  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
That  puts  me  'way  ahead  of  the  game.  I  am 
fifty  dollars  better  off  than  when  I  left  New 
York.  I'm  playing  in  great  luck."  So,  on  the 
strength  of  this,  he  bought  out  the  man  who 
sells  bouquets,  and  ordered  more  champagne  to 
be  sent  up  to  the  box  where  She  was  sitting, 
and  they  all  congratulated  him  on  his  winnings, 
which  were  suggested  by  his  generous  and  sud 
den  expenditures. 

"You  must  have  a  great  eye  for  picking  a 
winner,"  said  one  of  the  older  men,  grudgingly. 

"Y-e-s,"  said  Van  Bibber,  modestly.  "I 
know  a  horse  when  I  see  it,  I  think;  and,"  he 
added  to  himself,  "that's  about  all." 

His  horse  for  the  third  race  was  Rover,  and 

54 


the  odds  were  five  to  one  against  him.  Van 
Bibber  wanted  very  much  to  bet  on  Pirate 
King  instead,  but  he  remembered  his  vow  to 
keep  to  the  list  he  had  originally  prepared, 
whether  he  lost  or  won.  This  running  after 
strange  gods  was  always  a  losing  business.  He 
took  one  hundred  dollars  in  five-dollar  bills, 
and  went  down  to  the  ring  and  put  the  hundred 
up  on  Rover  and  returned  to  the  box.  The 
horses  had  been  weighed  in  and  the  bugle  had 
sounded,  and  three  of  the  racers  were  making 
their  way  up  the  track,  when  one  of  them 
plunged  suddenly  forward  and  went  down  on 
his  knees  and  then  stretched  out  dead.  Van 
Bibber  was  confident  it  was  Rover,  although 
he  had  no  idea  which  the  horse  was,  but  he 
knew  his  horse  would  not  run.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  excitement,  and  people  who  did 
not  know  the  rule,  which  requires  the  return  of 
all  money  if  any  accident  happens  to  a  horse  on 
the  race-track  between  the  time  of  weighing  in 
and  arriving  at  the  post,  were  needlessly  alarmed. 
Van  Bibber  walked  down  to  the  ring  and  re-' 
ceived  his  money  back  with  a  smile. 

"I'm  just  one  hundred  dollars  better  off  than 
I  was  three  minutes  ago,"  he  said.  "I've  really 
had  a  most  remarkable  day." 

May  fair  was  his  choice  for  tue  fourth  race, 
and  she  was  selling  at  three  to  one.  Van  Bib- 

55 


VAN  BIBBER  AT  THE   RACES 

her  determined  to  put  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  dollars  up  on  her,  for,  as  he  said,  he  had 
not  lost  on  any  one  race  yet.  The  girl  in  the 
box  was  very  interesting,  though,  and  Van 
Bibber  found  a  great  deal  to  say  to  her.  He 
interrupted  himself  once  to  call  to  one  of  the 
messenger  boys  who  ran  with  bets,  and  gave 
him  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars  to 
put  on  Mayfair. 

Several  other  gentlemen  gave  the  boy  large 
sums  as  well,  and  Van  Bibber  continued  to  talk 
earnestly  with  the  girl.  He  raised  his  head  to 
see  Mayfair  straggle  in  a  bad  second,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "How  much  did  you 
lose?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  'bout  two  hundred  dollars,"  said  Van 
Bibber;  "but  it's  the  first  time  I've  lost  to-day, 
so  I'm  still  ahead."  He  bent  over  to  continue 
what  he  was  saying,  when  a  rude  commotion 
and  loud  talking  caused  those  in  the  boxes  to 
raise  their  heads  and  look  around.  Several  gen 
tlemen  were  pointing  out  Van  Bibber  to  one  of 
the  Pinkerton  detectives,  who  had  a  struggling 
messenger  boy  in  his  grasp. 

"These  gentlemen  say  you  gave  this  boy 
some  money,  sir,"  said  the  detective.  "He 
tried  to  do  a  welsh  with  it,  and  I  caught  him 
just  as  he  was  getting  over  the  fence.  How 
much  and  on  what  horse,  sir?" 

56 


VAN   BIBBER  AT  THE  RACES 

Van  Bibber  showed  his  memoranda,  and  the 
officer  handed  him  over  one  hundred  and  sev 
enty-five  dollars. 

"Now,  let  me  see,'*  said  Van  Bibber,  shutting 
one  eye  and  calculating  intently,  "one  hundred 
and  seventy-five  to  three  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  makes  me  a  winner  by  five  hundred  and 
twenty-five  dollars.  That's  purty  good,  isn't 
it?  I'll  have  a  great  dinner  at  Delmonico's  to 
night.  You'd  better  all  come  back  with  me!" 

But  She  said  he  had  much  better  come  back 
with  her  and  her  party  on  top  of  the  coach  and 
take  dinner  in  the  cool  country  instead  of  the 
hot,  close  city,  and  Van  Bibber  said  he  would 
like  to,  only  he  did  wish  to  get  his  one  hundred 
dollars  up  on  at  least  one  race.  But  they  said 
"no,"  they  must  be  off  at  once,  for  the  ride  was 
a  long  one,  and  Van  Bibber  looked  at  his  list 
and  saw  that  his  choice  was  Jack  Frost,  a  very 
likely  winner,  indeed;  but,  nevertheless,  he 
walked  out  to  the  enclosure  with  them  and 
mounted  the  coach  beside  the  girl  on  the  back 
seat,  with  only  the  two  coachmen  behind  to 
hear  what  he  chose  to  say. 

And  just  as  they  finally  were  all  harnessed 
up  and  the  horn  sounded,  the  crowd  yelled, 
"They're  off,"  and  Van  Bibber  and  all  of  them 
turned  on  their  high  seats  to  look  back. 

"Magpie  wins,"  said  the  whip. 
57 


VAN  BIBBER  AT  THE  RACES 

"And  Jack  Frost's  last,"  said  another. 

"And  I  win  my  one  hundred  dollars,"  said 
Van  Bibber.  "It's  really  very  curious,"  he 
added,  turning  to  the  girl.  "  I  started  out  with 
two  hundred  dollars  to-day,  I  spent  only  twenty- 
five  dollars  on  flowers,  I  won  six  hundred  and 
twenty-five  dollars,  and  I  have  only  one 
hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars  to  show  for  it, 
and  yet  I've  had  a  very  pleasant  Fourth." 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  ECONOMY 

OF  course,  Van  Bibber  lost  all  the  money  he 
saved  at  the  races  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  He 
went  to  the  track  the  next  day,  and  he  saw  the 
whole  sum  melt  away,  and  in  his  vexation  tried 
to  "get  back,"  with  the  usual  result.  He 
plunged  desperately,  and  when  he  had  reached 
his  rooms  and  run  over  his  losses,  he  found  he 
was  a  financial  wreck,  and  that  he,  as  his  sport 
ing  friends  expressed  it,  "would  have  to  smoke 
a  pipe"  for  several  years  to  come,  instead  of 
indulging  in  Regalias.  He  could  not  conceive 
how  he  had  come  to  make  such  a  fool  of  him 
self,  and  he  wondered  if  he  would  have  enough 
confidence  to  spend  a  dollar  on  luxuries  again. 

It  was  awful  to  contemplate  the  amount  he 
had  lost.  He  felt  as  if  it  were  sinful  extrava 
gance  to  even  pay  his  car-fare  up-town,  and  he 
contemplated  giving  his  landlord  the  rent  with 
keen  distress.  It  almost  hurt  him  to  part  with 
five  cents  to  the  conductor,  and  as  he  looked  at 
the  hansoms  dashing  by  with  lucky  winners 
inside  he  groaned  audibly. 

"I've  got  to  economize,"  he  soliloquized. 
"No  use  talking;  must  economize.  I'll  begin 

59 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  ECONOMY 

to-morrow  morning  and  keep  it  up  for  a  month. 
Then  I'll  be  on  my  feet  again.  Then  I  can  stop 
economizing,  and  enjoy  myself.  But  no  more 
races;  never,  never  again." 

He  was  delighted  with  this  idea  of  economiz 
ing.  He  liked  the  idea  of  self-punishment  that 
it  involved,  and  as  he  had  never  denied  himself 
anything  in  his  life,  the  novelty  of  the  idea 
charmed  him.  He  rolled  over  to  sleep,  feeling 
very  much  happier  in  his  mind  than  he  had 
been  before  his  determination  was  taken,  and 
quite  eager  to  begin  on  the  morrow.  He  arose 
very  early,  about  ten  o'clock,  and  recalled  his 
idea  of  economy  for  a  month,  as  a  saving  clause 
to  his  having  lost  a  month's  spending  money. 

He  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  his  coffee  and 
rolls  and  a  parsley  omelet,  at  Delmonico's, 
every  morning.  He  decided  that  he  would 
start  out  on  his  road  of  economy  by  omitting 
the  omelet  and  ordering  only  a  pot  of  coffee. 
By  some  rare  intuition  he  guessed  that  there 
were  places  up-town  where  things  were  cheaper 
than  at  his  usual  haunt,  only  he  did  not  know 
where  they  were.  He  stumbled  into  a  restau 
rant  on  a  side  street  finally,  and  ordered  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  some  rolls. 

The  waiter  seemed  to  think  that  was  a  very 
poor  sort  of  breakfast,  and  suggested  some  nice 
chops  or  a  bit  of  steak  or  "ham  and  eggs,  sah," 

60 


AN   EXPERIMENT  IN   ECONOMY 

all  of  which  made  Van  Bibber  shudder.  The 
waiter  finally  concluded  that  Van  Bibber  was 
poor  and  couldn't  afford  any  more,  which,  as  it 
happened  to  be  more  or  less  true,  worried  that 
young  gentleman;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that 
when  the  waiter  brought  him  a  check  for  fifteen 
cents,  Van  Bibber  handed  him  a  half-dollar  and 
told  him  to  "keep  the  change." 

The  satisfaction  he  felt  in  this  wore  off  very 
soon  when  he  appreciated  that,  while  he  had 
economized  in  his  breakfast,  his  vanity  had 
been  very  extravagantly  pampered,  and  he  felt 
how  absurd  it  was  when  he  remembered  he 
would  not  have  spent  more  if  he  had  gone  to 
Delmonico's  in  the  first  place.  He  wanted  one 
of  those  large  black  Regalias  very  much,  but 
they  cost  entirely  too  much.  He  went  carefully 
through  his  pockets  to  see  if  he  had  one  with 
him,  but  he  had  not,  and  he  determined  to  get 
a  pipe.  Pipes  are  always  cheap. 

"What  sort  of  a  pipe,  sir?"  said  the  man  be 
hind  the  counter. 

"A  cheap  pipe,"  said  Van  Bibber. 

"But  what  sort?"  persisted  the  man. 

Van  Bibber  thought  a  brier  pipe,  with  an 
amber  mouth-piece  and  a  silver  band,  would 
about  suit  his  fancy.  The  man  had  just  such  a 
pipe,  with  trade-marks  on  the  brier  and  hall 
marks  and  "Sterling"  on  the  silver  band.  It 

6s 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN   ECONOMY 

lay  in  a  very  pretty  silk  box,  and  there  was 
another  mouth-piece  you  could  screw  in,  and  a 
cleaner  and  top  piece  with  which  to  press  the 
tobacco  down.  It  was  most  complete,  and  only 
five  dollars.  "Isn't  that  a  good  deal  for  a 
pipe?"  asked  Van  Bibber.  The  man  said,  being 
entirely  unprejudiced,  that  he  thought  not.  It 
was  cheaper,  he  said,  to  get  a  good  thing  at  the 
start.  It  lasted  longer.  And  cheap  pipes  bite 
your  tongue.  This  seemed  to  Van  Bibber  most 
excellent  reasoning.  Some  Oxford-Cambridge 
mixture  attracted  Van  Bibber  on  account  of  its 
name.  This  cost  one  dollar  more.  As  he  left 
the  shop  he  saw  a  lot  of  pipes,  brier  and  corn 
cob  and  Sallie  Michaels,  in  the  window  marked, 
"Any  of  these  for  a  quarter."  This  made  him 
feel  badly,  and  he  was  conscious  he  was  not 
making  a  success  of  his  economy.  He  started 
back  to  the  club,  but  it  was  so  hot  that  he 
thought  he  would  faint  before  he  got  there;  so 
he  called  a  hansom,  on  the  principle  that  it  was 
cheaper  to  ride  and  keep  well  than  to  walk  and 
have  a  sunstroke. 

He  saw  some  people  that  he  knew  going  by 
in  a  cab  with  a  pile  of  trunks  on  the  top  of  it, 
and  that  reminded  him  that  they  had  asked 
him  to  come  down  and  see  them  off  when  the 
steamer  left  that  afternoon.  So  he  waved  his 
hand  when  they  passed,  and  bowed  to  them, 

62 


and  cried,  "See  you  later,"  before  he  counted 
the  consequences.  He  did  not  wish  to  arrive 
empty-handed,  so  he  stopped  in  at  a  florist's 
and  got  a  big  basket  of  flowers  and  another  of 
fruit,  and  piled  them  into  the  hansom. 

When  he  came  to  pay  the  driver  he  found  the 
trip  from  Thirty-fifth  Street  to  the  foot  of  Lib 
erty  was  two  dollars  and  a  half,  and  the  fruit 
and  flowers  came  to  twenty-two  dollars.  He 
was  greatly  distressed  over  this,  and  could  not 
see  how  it  had  happened.  He  rode  back  irf  the 
elevated  for  five  cents,  and  felt  much  better. 
Then  some  men  just  back  from  a  yachting  trip 
joined  him  at  the  club  and  ordered  a  great  many 
things  to  drink,  and  of  course  he  had  to  do  the 
same,  and  seven  dollars  were  added  to  his 
economy  fund.  He  argued  that  this  did  not 
matter,  because  he  signed  a  check  for  it,  and 
that  he  would  not  have  to  pay  for  it  until  the 
end  of  the  month,  when  the  necessity  of  econ 
omizing  would  be  over. 

Still,  his  conscience  did  not  seem  convinced, 
and  he  grew  very  desperate.  He  felt  he  was 
not  doing  it  at  all  properly,  and  he  determined 
that  he  would  spend  next  to  nothing  on  his  din 
ner.  He  remembered  with  a  shudder  the  place 
he  had  taken  the  tramp  to  dinner,  and  he  vowed 
that  before  he  would  economize  as  rigidly  as 
that  he  would  starve;  but  he  had  heard  of  the 

63 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  ECONOMY 

table  d'hote  places  on  Sixth  Avenue,  so  he  went 
there  and  wandered  along  the  street  until  he 
found  one  that  looked  clean  and  nice.  He  be 
gan  writh  a  heavy  soup,  shoved  a  rich,  fat,  fried 
fish  over  his  plate,  and  followed  it  with  a  queer 
entree  of  spaghetti  with  a  tomato  dressing  that 
satisfied  his  hunger  and  killed  his  appetite  as  if 
with  the  blow  of  a  lead  pipe.  But  he  went 
through  with  the  rest  of  it,  for  he  felt  it  was  the 
truest  economy  to  get  his  money's  worth,  and 
the  limp  salad  in  bad  oil  and  the  ice-cream  of 
sour  milk  made  him  feel  that  eating  was  a 
positive  pain  rather  than  a  pleasure;  and  in 
this  state  of  mind  and  body,  drugged  and 
disgusted,  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  walked 
slowly  toward  the  club  along  Twenty-sixth 
Street. 

He  looked  in  at  the  cafe  at  Delmonico's  with 
envy  and  disgust,  and,  going  disheartenedly  on, 
passed  the  dining-room  windows  that  were  wide 
open  and  showed  the  heavy  white  linen,  the  sil 
ver,  and  the  women  coolly  dressed  and  every 
body  happy. 

And  then  there  was  a  wild  waving  of  arms 
inside,  and  white  hands  beckoning  him,  and  he 
saw  with  mingled  feelings  of  regret  that  the 
whole  party  of  the  Fourth  of  July  were  inside 
and  motioning  to  him.  They  made  room  for 
him,  and  the  captain's  daughter  helped  him  to 

64 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN  ECONOMY 

olives,  and  the  chaperon  told  how  they  had 
come  into  town  for  the  day,  and  had  been  tele 
graphing  for  him  and  Edgar  and  Fred  and  "dear 
Bill,"  and  the  rest  said  they  were  so  glad  to  see 
him  because  they  knew  he  could  appreciate  a 
,  good  dinner  if  any  one  could. 

But  Van  Bibber  only  groaned,  and  the  awful 
memories  of  the  lead-like  spaghetti  and  the  bad 
oil  and  the  queer  cheese  made  him  shudder, 
and  turned  things  before  him  into  a  Tantalus 
feast  of  rare  cruelty.  There  were  Little  Neck 
clams,  delicious  cold  consomme,  and  white  fish, 
and  French  chops  with  a  dressing  of  truffles, 
and  Roman  punch  and  woodcock  to  follow,  and 
crisp  lettuce  and  toasted  crackers-and-cheese, 
with  a  most  remarkable  combination  of  fruits 
and  ices;  and  Van  Bibber  could  eat  nothing, 
and  sat  unhappily  looking  at  his  plate  and 
shaking  his  head  when  the  waiter  urged  him 
gently.  "Economy!"  he  said,  writh  disgusted 
solemnity.  "It's  all  tommy  rot.  It  wouldn't 
have  cost  me  a  cent  to  have  eaten  this  dinner, 
and  yet  I've  paid  half  a  dollar  to  make  myself 
ill  so  that  I  can't.  If  you  know  how  to  econo 
mize,  it  may  be  all  right;  but  if  you  don't  under 
stand  it,  you  must  leave  it  alone.  It's  danger 
ous.  I'll  economize  no  more." 

And  he  accordingly  broke  his  vow  by  taking 
the  whole  party  up  to  see  the  lady  who  would 


AN  EXPERIMENT  IN   ECONOMY 

not  be  photographed  in  tights,  and  put  them 
in  a  box  where  they  were  gagged  by  the  come 
dian,  and  where  the  soubrette  smiled  on  them 
and  all  went  well. 


66 


MR.  TRAVERS'S  FIRST  HUNT 

YOUNG  Travers,  who  had  been  engaged  to  a 
girl  down  on  Long  Island  for  the  last  three 
months,  only  met  her  father  and  brother  a  few 
weeks  before  the  day  set  for  the  wedding.  The 
brother  is  a  master  of  hounds  near  Southamp 
ton,  and  shared  the  expense  of  importing  a  pack 
from  England  with  Van  Bibber.  The  father 
and  son  talked  horse  all  day  and  until  one  in 
the  morning;  for  they  owned  fast  thoroughbreds, 
and  entered  them  at  the  Sheepshead  Bay  and 
other  race-tracks.  Old  Mr.  Paddock,  the  father 
of  the  girl  to  whom  Travers  was  engaged,  had 
often  said  that  when  a  young  man  asked  him 
for  his  daughter's  hand  he  would  ask  him  in 
return,  not  if  he  had  lived  straight,  but  if  he 
could  ride  straight.  And  on  his  answering  this 
question  in  the  affirmative  depended  his  gaining 
her  parent's  consent.  Travers  had  met  Miss 
Paddock  and  her  mother  in  Europe,  while  the 
men  of  the  family  were  at  home.  He  was  in 
vited  to  their  place  in  the  fall  when  the  hunting 
season  opened,  and  spent  the  .evening  most 
pleasantly  and  satisfactorily  with  his  fiancee  in 
a  corner  of  the  drawing-room.  But  as  soon  as 


\ 


MR.   TRAVERS'S  FIRST  HUNT 

the  women  had  gone,  young  Paddock  joined 
him  and  said,  "You  ride,  of  course?"  Travers 
had  never  ridden;  but  he  had  been  prompted 
how  to  answer  by  Miss  Paddock,  and  so  said 
there  was  nothing  he  liked  better.  As  he  ex 
pressed  it,  he  would  rather  ride  than  sleep. 

"That's  good,"  said  Paddock.  "I'll  give  you 
a  mount  on  Satan  to-morrow  morning  at  the 
meet.  He  is  a  bit  nasty  at  the  start  of  the 
season;  and  ever  since  he  killed  Wallis,  the 
second  groom,  last  year,  none  of  us  care  much 
to  ride  him.  But  you  can  manage  him,  no 
doubt.  He'll  just  carry  your  weight." 

Mr.  Travers  dreamed  that  night  of  taking 
large,  desperate  leaps  into  space  on  a  wild  horse 
that  snorted  forth  flames,  and  that  rose  at  solid 
stone  walls  as  though  they  were  hayricks. 

He  was  tempted  to  say  he  was  ill  in  the 
morning — which  was,  considering  his  state  of 
mind,  more  or  less  true — but  concluded  that, 
as  he  would  have  to  ride  sooner  or  later  during 
his  visit,  and  that  if  he  did  break  his  neck  it 
would  be  in  a  good  cause,  he  determined  to  do 
his  best.  He  did  not  want  to  ride  at  all,  for 
two  excellent  reasons — first,  because  he  wanted 
to  live  for  Miss  Paddock's  sake,  and,  second, 
because  he  wanted  to  live  for  his  own. 

The  next  morning  was  a  most  forbidding  and 
doleful-looking  morning,  and  young  Travers  had 

68 


MR.   TRAVERS'S  FIRST  HUNT 

great  hopes  that  the  meet  would  be  declared 
off;  but,  just  as  he  lay  in  doubt,  the  servant 
knocked  at  his  door  with  his  riding  things  and 
his  hot  water. 

He  came  down-stairs  looking  very  miserable 
indeed.  Satan  had  been  taken  to  the  place 
where  they  were  to  meet,  and  Travers  viewed 
him  on  his  arrival  there  with  a  sickening  sense 
of  fear,  as  he  saw  him  pulling  three  grooms  off 
their  feet. 

Travers  decided  that  he  would  stay  with  his 
feet  on  solid  earth  just  as  long  as  he  could,  and 
when  the  hounds  were  thrown  off  and  the  rest 
had  started  at  a  gallop  he  waited,  under  the 
pretense  of  adjusting  his  gaiters,  until  they 
were  all  well  away.  Then  he  clinched  his 
teeth,  crammed  his  hat  down  over  his  ears,  and 
scrambled  up  on  to  the  saddle.  His  feet  fell 
quite  by  accident  into  the  stirrups,  and  the  next 
instant  he  was  off  after  the  others,  with  an  in 
distinct  feeling  that  he  was  on  a  locomotive  that 
was  jumping  the  ties.  Satan  was  in  among 
and  had  passed  the  other  horses  in  less  than  five 
minutes,  and  was  so  close  on  the  hounds  that 
the  \vhippers-in  gave  a  cry  of  warning.  But 
Travers  could  as  soon  have  pulled  a  boat  back 
from  going  over  the  Niagara  Falls  as  Satan, 
and  it  was  only  because  the  hounds  were  well 
ahead  that  saved  them  from  having  Satan  ride 


MR.  TRAVERS'S  FIRST  HUNT 

them  down.  Travers  had  taken  hold  of  the 
saddle  with  his  left  hand  to  keep  himself  down, 
and  sawed  and  swayed  on  the  reins  with  his 
right.  He  shut  his  eyes  whenever  Satan 
jumped,  and  never  knew  how  he  happened  to 
stick  on;  but  he  did  stick  on,  and  was  so  far 
ahead  that  no  one  could  see  in  the  misty  morn 
ing  just  how  badly  he  rode..  As  it  was,  for  dar 
ing  and  speed  he  led  the  field,  and  not  even 
young  Paddock  was  near  him  from  the  start. 
There  was  a  broad  stream  in  front  of  him,  and 
a  hill  just  on  its  other  side.  No  one  had  ever 
tried  to  take  this  at  a  jump.  It  was  considered 
more  of  a  swim  than  anything  else,  and  the 
hunters  always  crossed  it  by  the  bridge,  toward 
the  left.  Travers  saw  the  bridge  and  tried  to 
jerk  Satan's  head  in  that  direction;  but  Satan 
kept  right  on  as  straight  as  an  express  train 
over  the  prairie.  Fences  and  trees  and  furrows 
passed  by  and  under  Travers  like  a  panorama 
run  by  electricity,  and  he  only  breathed  by  acci 
dent.  They  went  on  at  the  stream  and  the  hill 
beyond  as  though  they  were  riding  at  a  stretch 
of  turf,  and,  though  the  whole  field  set  up  a 
shout  of  warning  and  dismay,  Travers  could 
only  gasp  and  shut  his  eyes.  He  remembered 
the  fate  of  the  second  groom  and  shivered. 
Then  the  horse  rose  like  a  rocket,  lifting  Travers 
so  high  in  the  air  that  he  thought  Satan  would 

70 


MR.  TRAVERSES  FIRST  HUNT 

never  come  down  again;  but  he  did  come  down- 
with  his  feet  bunched,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  stream.  The  next  instant  he  was  up  and 
over  the  hill,  and  had  stopped  panting  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  pack  that  were  snarling  and 
snapping  around  the  fox.  And  then  Travers 
showed  that  he  was  a  thoroughbred,  even 
though  he  could  not  ride,  for  he  hastily  fumbled 
for  his  cigar-case,  and  when  the  field  came 
pounding  up  over  the  bridge  and  around  the 
hill,  they  saw  him  seated  nonchalantly  on  his 
saddle,  puffing  critically  at  a  cigar  and  giving 
Satan  patronizing  pats  on  the  head. 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  old  Mr.  Paddock  to  his 
daughter  as  they  rode  back,  "if  you  love  that 
young  man  of  yours  and  want  to  keep  him, 
make  him  promise  to  give  up  riding.  A  more 
reckless  and  more  brilliant  horseman  I  have 
never  seen.  He  took  that  double  jump  at  the 
gate  and  that  stream  like  a  centaur.  But  he 
will  break  his  neck  sooner  or  later,  and  he  ought 
to  be  stopped."  Young  Paddock  was  so  de 
lighted  with  his  prospective  brother-in-law's 
great  riding  that  that  night  in  the  smoking- 
room  he  made  him  a  present  of  Satan  before  all 
the  men. 

"No,"  said  Travers,  gloomily,  "I  can't  take 
him.  Your  sister  has  asked  me  to  give  up 
what  is  dearer  to  me  than  anything  next  to 


MR.  TRAVERS'S  FIRST  HUNT 

herself,  and  that  is  my  riding.  You  see,  she  is 
absurdly  anxious  for  my  safety,  and  she  has 
asked  me  to  promise  never  to  ride  again,  and 
I  have  given  my  word." 

A  chorus  of  sympathetic  remonstrance  rose 
from  the  men. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Travers  to  her  brother, 
"it  is  rough,  but  it  just  shows  what  sacrifices  a 
man  will  make  for  the  woman  he  loves." 


LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG 

YOUNG  Van  Bibber  had  been  staying  with 
some  people  at  Southampton,  L.  I.,  where,  the 
fall  before,  his  friend  Travers  made  his  reputa 
tion  as  a  cross-country  rider.  He  did  this,  it 
may  be  remembered,  by  shutting  his  eyes  and 
holding  on  by  the  horse's  mane  and  letting  the 
horse  go  as  it  pleased.  His  recklessness  and 
courage  are  still  spoken  of  with  awe;  and  the 
place  where  he  cleared  the  water  jump  that 
every  one  else  avoided  is  pointed  out  as  Traverses 
Leap  to  visiting  horsemen,  who  look  at  it  gloom 
ily  and  shake  their  heads.  Miss  Arnett,  whose 
mother  was  giving  the  house-party,  was  an 
attractive  young  woman,  with  an  admiring 
retinue  of  youths  who  gave  attention  without 
intention,  and  for  none  of  whom  Miss  Arnett 
showed  particular  preference.  Her  whole  in 
terest,  indeed,  was  centred  in  a  dog,  a  Scotch 
collie  called  Duncan.  She  allowed  this  dog 
every  liberty,  and  made  a  decided  nuisance  of 
him  for  every  one  around  her.  He  always  went 
with  her  when  she  walked*  or  trotted  beside 
her  horse  when  she  rode.  He  stretched  himself 
before  the  fire  in  the  dining-room,  and  startled 

73 


LOVE  ME,   LOVE  MY  DOG 

people  at  table  by  placing  his  cold  nose  against 
their  hands  or  putting  his  paws  on  their  gowns. 
He  was  generally  voted  a  most  annoying  ad 
junct  to  the  Arnett  household;  but  no  one 
dared  hint  so  to  Miss  Arnett,  as  she  only  loved 
those  who  loved  the  dog,  or  pretended  to  do  it. 
On  the  morning  of  the  afternoon  on  which  Van 
Bibber  and  his  bag  arrived,  the  dog  disappeared 
and  could  not  be  recovered.  Van  Bibber  found 
the  household  in  a  state  of  much  excitement  in 
consequence,  and  his  welcome  was  necessarily 
brief.  The  arriving  guest  was  not  to  be  consid 
ered  at  all  with  the  departed  dog.  The  men 
told  Van  Bibber,  in  confidence,  that  the  general 
relief  among  the  guests  was  something  ecstatic, 
but  this  was  marred  later  by  the  gloom  of  Miss 
Arnett  and  her  inability  to  think  of  anything 
else  but  the  finding  of  the  lost  collie.  Things 
became  so  feverish  that  for  the  sake  of  rest  and 
peace  the  house-party  proposed  to  contribute 
to  a  joint  purse  for  the  return  of  the  dog,  as 
even,  nuisance  as  it  was,  it  was  not  so  bad  as 
having  their  visit  spoiled  by  Miss  Arnett's 
abandonment  to  grief  and  crossness. 

"I  think,"  said  the  young  woman,  after 
luncheon,  "that  some  of  you  men  might  be 
civil  enough  to  offer  to  look  for  him.  I'm  sure 
he  can't  have  gone  far,  or,  if  he  has  been  stolen, 
the  men  who  took  him  couldn't  have  gone  very 

74 


LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG 

far  away  either.  Now  which  of  you  will  vol 
unteer?  I'm  sure  you'll  do  it  to  please  me. 
Mr.  Van  Bibber,  now:  you  say  you're  so  clever. 
We're  all  the  time  hearing  of  your  adventures. 
Why  don't  you  show  how  full  of  expedients  you 
are  and  rise  to  the  occasion?"  The  suggestion 
of  scorn  in  this  speech  nettled  Van  Bibber. 

"I'm  sure  I  never  posed  as  being  clever,"  he 
said,  "and  finding  a  lost  dog  with  all  Long 
Island  to  pick  and  choose  from  isn't  a  particu 
larly  easy  thing  to  pull  off  successfully,  I  should 
think."  ' 

"  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  take  a  dare  like  that, 
Van  Bibber,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "Why,  it's 
just  the  sort  of  thing  you  do  so  well." 

"Yes,"  said  another,  "I'll  back  you  to  find 
him  if  you  try." 

" Thanks,"  said  Van  Bibber,  dryly.  :< There 
seems  to  be  a  disposition  on  the  part  of  the 
young  men  present  to  turn  me  into  a  dog- 
catcher.  I  doubt  whether  this  is  altogether  un 
selfish.  I  do  not  say  that  they  would  rather 
remain  indoors  and  teach  the  girls  how  to  play 
billiards,  but  I  quite  appreciate  their  reasons 
for  not  wishing  to  roam  about  in  the  snow  and 
whistle  for  a  dog.  However,  to  oblige  the  de 
spondent  mistress  of  this  valuable  member  of 
the  household,  I  will  risk  pneumonia,  and  I  will, 
at  the  same  time,  in  order  to  make  the  event 

75 


LOVE  ME,   LOVE  MY  DOG 

interesting  to  all  concerned,  back  myself  to 
bring  that  dog  back  by  eight  o'clock.  Now, 
then,  if  any  of  you  unselfish  youths  have  any 
sporting  blood,  you  will  just  name  the  sum." 

They  named  one  hundred  dollars,  and  ar 
ranged  that  Van  Bibber  was  to  have  the  dog 
back  by  eight  o'clock,  or  just  in  time  for  dinner; 
for  Van  Bibber  said  he  wouldn't  miss  his  dinner 
for  all  the  dogs  in  the  two  hemispheres,  unless 
the  dogs  happened  to  be  his  own. 

Van  Bibber  put  on  his  great-coat  and  told  the 
man  to  bring  around  the  dog-cart;  then  he  filled 
his  pockets  with  cigars  and  placed  a  flask  of 
brandy  under  the  seat,  and  wrapped  the  robes 
around  his  knees. 

"I  feel  just  like  a  relief  expedition  to  the 
North  Pole.  I  think  I  ought  to  have  some 
lieutenants,"  he  suggested. 

"Well,"  cried  one  of  the  men,  "suppose  we 
make  a  pool  and  each  chip  in  fifty  dollars,  and 
the  man  who  brings  the  dog  back  in  time  gets 
the  whole  of  it?" 

"That  bet  of  mine  stands,  doesn't  it?"  asked 
Van  Bibber. 

The  men  said  it  did,  and  went  off  to  put  on 
their  riding  things,  and  four  horses  were  saddled 
and  brought  around  from  the  stable.  Each  of 
the  four  explorers  was  furnished  with  a  long 
rope  to  tie  to  Duncan's  collar,  and  with  which 


he  was  to  be  led  back  if  they  found  him.  They 
were  cheered  ironically  by  the  maidens  they 
had  deserted  on  compulsion,  and  were  smiled 
upon  severally  by  Miss  Arnett.  Then  they 
separated  and  took  different  roads.  It  was 
snowing  gently,  and  was  very  cold.  Van  Bibber 
drove  aimlessly  ahead,  looking  to  the  right  and 
left  and  scanning  each  back  yard  and  side  street. 
Every  now  and  then  he  hailed  some  passing 
farm  wagon  and  asked  the  driver  if  he  had 
seen  a  stray  collie  dog,  but  the  answer  was  in 
variably  in  the  negative.  He  soon  left  the  vil 
lage  in  the  rear,  and  plunged  out  over  the  downs. 
The  wind  was  bitter  cold,  and  swept  from  the 
water  with  a  chill  that  cut  through  his  clothes. 

"Oh,  this  is  great,"  said  Van  Bibber  to  the 
patient  horse  in  front  of  him;  "this  is  sport,  this 
is.  The  next  time  I  come  to  this  part  of  the 
world  I'll  be  dragged  here  with  a  rope.  Nice, 
hospitable  people  those  Arnetts,  aren't  they? 
Ask  you  to  make  yourself  at  home  chasing  dogs 
over  an  ice  fjord.  Don't  know  when  I've  en 
joyed  myself  so  much."  Every  now  and  then 
he  stood  up  and  looked  all  over  the  hills  and 
valleys  to  see  if  he  could  not  distinguish  a  black 
object  running  over  the  white  surface  of  the 
snow,  but  he  saw  nothing  like  a  dog,  not  even 
the  track  of  one. 

Twice  he  came  across  one  of  the  other  men, 

77 


LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG 

shivering  and  swearing  from  his  saddle,  and 
with  teeth  chattering. 

"Well,"  said  one  of  them,  shuddering,  "you 
haven't  found  that  dog  yet,  I  see." 

"No,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "Oh,  no.  I've 
given  up  looking  for  the  dog.  I'm  just  driving 
around  enjoying  myself.  The  air's  so  invigorat 
ing,  and  I  like  to  feel  the  snow  settling  between 
my  collar  and  the  back  of  my  neck." 

At  four  o'clock  Van  Bibber  was  about  as 
nearly  frozen  as  a  man  could  be  after  he  had 
swallowed  half  a  bottle  of  brandy.  It  was  so 
cold  that  the  ice  formed  on  his  cigar  when  he 
took  it  from  his  lips,  and  his  feet  and  the  dash 
board  seemed  to  have  become  stuck  together. 

"I  think  I'll  give  it  up,"  he  said,  finally,  as  he 
turned  the  horse's  head  toward  Southampton. 
"I  hate  to  lose  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
as  much  as  any  man;  but  I  love  my  fair  young 
life,  and  I'm  not  going  to  turn  into  an  equestrian 
statue  in  ice  for  anybody's  collie  dog." 

He  drove  the  cart  to  the  stable  and  unhar 
nessed  the  horse  himself,  as  all  the  grooms  were 
out  scouring  the  country,  and  then  went  up 
stairs  unobserved  and  locked  himself  in  his 
room,  for  he  did  not  care  to  have  the  others 
know  that  he  had  given  out  so  early  in  the 
chase.  There  was  a  big  open  fire  in  his  room, 
and  he  put  on  his  warm  things  and  stretched 


LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG 

out  before  it  in  a  great  easy-chair,  and  smoked 
and  sipped  the  brandy  and  chuckled  with  de 
light  as  he  thought  of  the  four  other  men  racing 
around  in  the  snow. 

"They  may  have  more  nerve  than  I,"  he 
soliloquized,  "and  I  don't  say  they  have  not; 
but  they  can  have  all  the  credit  and  rewards 
they  want,  and  I'll  be  satisfied  to  stay  just 
where  I  am." 

At  seven  he  saw  the  four  riders  coming  back 
dejectedly,  and  without  the  dog.  As  they 
passed  his  room  he  heard  one  of  the  men  ask 
if  Van  Bibber  had  got  back  yet,  and  another 
say  yes,  he  had,  as  he  had  left  the  cart  in  the 
stable,  but  that  one  of  the  servants  had  said 
that  he  had  started  out  again  on  foot. 

"He  has,  has  he?"  said  the  voice.  "Well, 
he's  got  sporting  blood,  and  he'll  need  to  keep 
it  at  fever  heat  if  he  expects  to  live.  I'm  frozen 
so  that  I  can't  bend  my  fingers." 

Van  Bibber  smiled,  and  moved  comfortably 
in  the  big  chair;  he  had  dozed  a  little,  and  was 
feeling  very  contented.  At  half-past  seven  he 
began  to  dress,  and  at  five  minutes  to  eight  he 
was  ready  for  dinner  and  stood  looking  out  of 
the  window  at  the  moonlight  on  the  white  lawn 
below.  The  snow  had  stopped  falling,  and 
everything  lay  quiet  and  still  as  though  it  were 
cut  in  marble.  And  then  suddenly,  across  the 

79 


LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG 

lawn,  came  a  black,  bedraggled  object  on  four 
legs,  limping  painfully,  and  lifting  its  feet  as 
though  there  were  lead  on  them. 

"Great  heavens  !"  cried  Van  Bibber,  "it's  the 
dog!"  He  was  out  of  the  room  in  a  moment 
and  down  into  the  hall.  He  heard  the  murmur 
of  voices  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  sympa 
thetic  tones  of  the  women  who  were  pitying  the 
men.  Van  Bibber  pulled  on  his  overshoes  and 
a  great-coat  that  covered  him  from  his  ears  to 
his  ankles,  and  dashed  out  into  the  snow.  The 
dog  had  just  enough  spirit  left  to  try  and  dodge 
him,  and  with  a  leap  to  one  side  went  off  again 
across  the  lawn.  It  was,  as  Van  Bibber  knew, 
but  three  minutes  to  eight  o'clock,  and  have 
the  dog  he  must  and  would.  The  collie  sprang 
first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other,  and 
snarled  and  snapped;  but  Van  Bibber  was  keen 
with  the  excitement  of  the  chase,  so  he  plunged 
forward  recklessly  and  tackled  the  dog  around 
the  body,  and  they  both  rolled  over  and  over 
together.  Then  Van  Bibber  scrambled  to  his 
feet  and  dashed  up  the  steps  and  into  the  draw 
ing-room  just  as  the  people  were  in  line  for 
dinner,  and  while  the  minute-hand  stood  at  a 
minute  to  eight  o'clock. 

"How  is  this?"  shouted  Van  Bibber,  holding 
up  one  hand  and  clasping  the  dog  under  his 
other  arm. 

80 


LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG 

Miss  Arnett  flew  at  the  collie  and  embraced 
it,  wet  as  it  was,  and  ruined  her  gown,  and  all 
the  men  glanced  instinctively  at  the  clock  and 
said: 

"You've  won,  Van." 

"But  you  must  be  frozen  to  death,"  said 
Miss  Arnett,  looking  up  at  him  with  gratitude 
in  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Van  Bibber,  beginning  to 
shiver.  "I've  had  a  terrible  long  walk,  and  I 
had  to  carry  him  all  the  way.  If  you'll  excuse 
me,  I'll  go  change  my  things." 

He  reappeared  again  in  a  suspiciously  short 
time  for  one  who  had  to  change  outright,  and 
the  men  admired  his  endurance  and  paid  up 
the  bet. 

"Where  did  you  find  him,  Van?"  one  of 
them  asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  they  all  chorussed.  "  Where  was 
he?" 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Van  Bibber,  "is  a  thing 
known  to  only  two  beings,  Duncan  and  myself. 
Duncan  can't  tell,  and  I  won't.  If  I  did,  you'd 
say  I  was  trying  to  make  myself  out  clever, 
and  I  never  boast  about  the  things  I  do." 


81 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVER 

"HEFTY"  BURKE  was  one  of  the  best  swim 
mers  in  the  East  River.  There  was  no  regular 
way  open  for  him  to  prove  this,  as  the  gentle 
men  of  the  Harlem  boat-clubs,  under  whose 
auspices  the  annual  races  were  given,  called 
him  a  professional  and  would  not  swim  against 
him.  "They  won't  keep  company  with  me  on 
land,"  Hefty  complained,  bitterly,  "and  they 
can't  keep  company  with  me  in  the  water;  so  I 
lose  both  ways."  Young  Burke  held  these  gen 
tlemen  of  the  rowing  clubs  in  great  contempt, 
and  their  outriggers  and  low-necked  and  pic 
turesque  rowing  clothes  as  well.  They  were 
fond  of  lying  out  of  the  current,  with  the  oars 
pulled  across  at  their  backs  for  support,  smoking 
and  commenting  audibly  upon  the  other  oars 
men  who  passed  them  by  perspiring  uncomfort 
ably,  and  conscious  that  they  were  being  criti 
cised.  Hefty  said  that  these  amateur  oarsmen 
and  swimmers  were  only  pretty  boys,  and  that 
he  could  give  them  two  hundred  yards'  start  in 
a  mile  of  rough  or  smooth  water  and  pass  them 
as  easily  as  a  tug  passes  a  lighter. 

He  was  quite  right  in  this  latter  boast;  but, 
as  they  would  call  him  a  professional  and  would 

82 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVER 

not  swim  against  him,  there  was  no  way  for 
him  to  prove  it.  His  idea  of  a  race  and  their 
idea  of  a  race  differed.  They  had  a  committee 
to  select  prizes  and  open  a  book  for  entries,  and 
when  the  day  of  the  races  came  they  had  a 
judges'  boat  with  gay  bunting  all  over  it,  and 
a  badly  frightened  referee  and  a  host  of  report 
ers,  and  police  boats  to  keep  order.  But  when 
Hefty  swam,  his  two  backers,  who  had  chal 
lenged  some  other  young  man  through  a  sport 
ing  paper,  rowed  in  a  boat  behind  him  and 
yelled  and  swore  directions,  advice,  warnings, 
and  encouragement  at  him,  and  in  their  excite 
ment  drank  all  of  the  whiskey  that  had  been 
intended  for  him.  And  the  other  young  man's 
backers,  who  had  put  up  ten  dollars  on  him, 
and  a  tugboat  filled  with  other  rough  young 
men,  kegs  of  beer,  and  three  Italians  with  two 
fiddles  and  one  harp,  followed  close  in  the  wake 
of  the  swimmers.  It  was  most  exciting,  and 
though  Hefty  never  had  any  prizes  to  show  for 
it,  he  always  came  in  first,  and  so  won  a  great 
deal  of  local  reputation.  He  also  gained  re 
nown  as  a  life-saver;  for  if  it  had  not  been  for 
him  many  a  venturesome  lad  would  have  ended 
his  young  life  in  the  waters  of  the  East  River. 

For  this  he  received  ornate  and  very  thin 
gold  medals,  with  very  little  gold  spread  over  a 
large  extent  of  medal,  from  grateful  parents 

83 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVER 

and  admiring  friends.  These  were  real  medals, 
and  given  to  him,  and  not  paid  for  by  himself, 
as  were  "Rags"  Raegan's,  who  always  bought 
himself  a  medal  whenever  he  assaulted  a  repu 
table  citizen  and  the  case  was  up  before  the 
Court  of  General  Sessions.  It  was  the  habit  of 
Mr.  Raegan's  friends  to  fall  overboard  for  him 
whenever  he  was  in  difficulty  of  this  sort,  and 
allow  themselves  to  be  saved,  and  to  present 
Raegan  with  the  medal  he  had  prepared;  and 
this  act  of  heroism  would  get  into  the  papers, 
and  Raegan's  lawyer  would  make  the  most  of 
it  before  the  judges.  Rags  had  been  Hefty's 
foremost  rival  among  the  swimmers  of  the  East 
Side,  but  since  the  retirement  of  the  former  into 
reputable  and  private  life  Hefty  was  the  ac 
knowledged  champion  of  the  river  front. 

Hefty  was  not  at  all  a  bad  young  man — that 
is,  he  did  not  expect  his  people  to  support  him 
— and  he  worked  occasionally,  especially  about 
election  time,  and  what  he  made  in  bets  and  in 
backing  himself  to  swim  supplied  him  with 
small  change.  Then  he  fell  in  love  with  Miss 
Casey,  and  the  trouble  and  happiness  of  his 
life  came  to  him  hand  and  hand  together;  and 
as  this  human  feeling  does  away  with  class  dis 
tinctions,  I  need  not  feel  I  must  apologize  for 
him  any  longer,  but  just  tell  his  story. 

He  met  her  at  the  Hon.  P.  C.  McGovern's 
84 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE   EAST  RIVER 

Fourth  Ward  Association's  excursion  and  pic 
nic,  at  which  he  was  one  of  the  twenty-five  vice- 
presidents.  On  this  occasion  Hefty  had  jumped 
overboard  after  one  of  the  Rag  Gang  whom  the 
members  of  the  Half-Hose  Social  Club  had,  in 
a  spirit  of  merriment,  dropped  over  the  side  of 
the  boat.  This  action  and  the  subsequent  res 
cue  and  ensuing  intoxication  of  the  half-drowned 
member  of  the  Rag  Gang  had  filled  Miss  Casey's 
heart  with  admiration,  and  she  told  Hefty  he 
was  a  good  one  and  ought  to  be  proud  of  himself. 

On  the  following  Sunday  he  walked  out  Ave 
nue  A  to  Tompkins  Square  with  Mary,  and  he 
also  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  every  day  on  her 
stoop  when  he  was  not  working,  for  he  was 
working  now  and  making  ten  dollars  a  week  as 
an  assistant  to  an  ice-driver.  They  had  prom 
ised  to  give  him  fifteen  dollars  a  week  and  a 
seat  on  the  box  if  he  proved  steady.  He  had 
even  dreamed  of  wedding  Mary  in  the  spring. 
But  Casey  was  a  particularly  objectionable  man 
for  a  father-in-law,  and  his  objections  to  Hefty 
were  equally  strong.  He  honestly  thought  the 
young  man  no  fit  match  for  his  daughter,  and 
would  only  promise  to  allow  him  to  "keep  com 
pany"  with  Mary  on  the  condition  of  his  living 
steadily. 

So  it  became  Hefty's  duty  to  behave  himself. 
He  found  this  a  little  hard  to  do  at  first,  but  he 

85 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE   EAST  RIVER 

confessed  that  it  grew  easier  as  he  saw  more  of 
Miss  Casey.  He  attributed  his  reform  to  her 
entirely.  She  had  made  the  semi-political, 
semi-social  organizations  to  which  he  belonged 
appear  stupid,  and  especially  so  when  he  lost 
his  money  playing  poker  in  the  club-room  (for 
the  club  had  only  one  room),  when  he  might 
have  put  it  away  for  her.  He  liked  to  talk  with 
her  about  the  neighbors  in  the  tenement,  and 
his  chance  of  political  advancement  to  the  posi 
tion  of  a  watchman  at  the  Custom-house  Wharf, 
and  hear  her  play  "Mary  and  John"  on  the 
melodeon.  He  boasted  that  she  could  make  it 
sound  as  well  as  it  did  on  the  barrel-organ. 

He  was  very  polite  to  her  father  and  very 
much  afraid  of  him,  for  he  was  a  most  particu 
lar  old  man  from  the  North  of  Ireland,  and 
objected  to  Hefty  because  he  was  a  good  Cath 
olic  and  fond  of  street  fights.  He  also  asked 
pertinently  how  Hefty  expected  to  support  a 
wife  by  swimming  from  one  pier  to  another  on 
the  chance  of  winning  ten  dollars,  and  pointed 
out  that  even  this  precarious  means  of  liveli 
hood  would  be  shut  off  when  the  winter  came. 
He  much  preferred  "Patsy"  Moffat  as  a  pro 
spective  son-in-law,  because  Moffat  was  one 
of  the  proprietors  in  a  local  express  company 
with  a  capital  stock  of  three  wagons  and  two 
horses.  Miss  Casey  herself,  so  it  seemed  to 

86 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE   EAST  RIVER 

Hefty,  was  rather  fond  of  Moffat;  but  he  could 
not  tell  for  whom  she  really  cared,  for  she  was 
very  shy,  and  would  as  soon  have  thought  of 
speaking  a  word  of  encouragement  as  of  speak 
ing  with  unkindness. 

There  was  to  be  a  ball  at  the  Palace  Garden 
on  Wednesday  night,  and  Hefty  had  promised 
to  call  for  Mary  at  nine  o'clock.  She  told  him 
to  be  on  time,  and  threatened  to  go  with  her 
old  love,  Patsy  Moffat,  if  he  were  late. 

On  Monday  night  the  foreman  at  the  livery 
stable  of  the  ice  company  appointed  Hefty  a 
driver,  and,  as  his  wages  would  now  be  fifteen 
dollars  a  week,  he  concluded  to  ask  Mary  to 
marry  him  on  Wednesday  night  at  the  dance. 

He  was  very  much  elated  and  very  happy. 

His  fellow-workmen  heard  of  his  promotion 
and  insisted  on  his  standing  treat,  which  he  did 
several  times,  until  the  others  became  flippant 
in  their  remarks  and  careless  in  their  conduct. 
In  this  innocent  but  somewhat  noisy  state  they 
started  home,  and  on  the  way  were  injudicious 
enough  to  say,  "Ah  there!"  to  a  policeman  as 
he  issued  from  the  side  door  of  a  saloon.  The 
policeman  naturally  pounded  the  nearest  of 
them  on  the  head  with  his  club,  and  as  Hefty 
happened  to  be  that  one,  and  as  he  objected,  he 
was  arrested.  He  gave  a  false  name,  and  next 
morning  pleaded  not  guilty  to  the  charge  of 

87 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVER 

"assaulting  an  officer  and  causing  a  crowd  to 
collect." 

His  sentence  was  thirty  days  in  default  of 
three  hundred  dollars,  and  by  two  o'clock  he 
was  on  the  boat  to  the  Island,  and  by  three  he 
had  discarded  the  blue  shirt  and  red  suspenders 
of  an  iceman  for  the  gray  stiff  cloth  of  a  prisoner. 
He  took  the  whole  trouble  terribly  to  heart. 
He  knew  that  if  Old  Man  Casey,  as  he  called 
him,  heard  of  it  there  would  be  no  winning  his 
daughter  with  his  consent,  and  he  feared  that 
the  girl  herself  would  have  grave  doubts  con 
cerning  him.  He  was  especially  cast  down 
when  he  thought  of  the  dance  on  Wednesday 
night,  and  of  how  she  would  go  off  with  Patsy 
Moffat.  And  what  made  it  worse  was  the 
thought  that  if  he  did  not  return  he  would  lose 
his  position  at  the  ice  company's  stable,  and 
then  marriage  with  Mary  would  be  quite  im 
possible.  He  grieved  over  this  all  day,  and 
speculated  as  to  what  his  family  would  think 
of  him.  His  circle  of  friends  was  so  well  known 
to  other  mutual  friends  that  he  did  not  dare  to 
ask  any  of  them  to  bail  him  out,  for  this  would 
have  certainly  come  to  Casey's  ears. 

He  could  do  nothing  but  wait.  And  yet 
thirty  days  was  a  significant  number  to  his 
friends,  and  an  absence  of  that  duration  would 
be  hard  to  explain.  On  Wednesday  morning, 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVER 

two  days  after  his  arrest,  he  was  put  to  work 
with  a  gang  of  twenty  men  breaking  stone  on 
the  roadway  that  leads  from  the  insane  quarters 
to  the  penitentiary.  It  was  a  warm,  sunny 
day,  and  the  city,  lying  just  across  the  narrow 
channel,  never  looked  more  beautiful.  It 
seemed  near  enough  for  him  to  reach  out  his 
hand  and  touch  it.  And  the  private  yachts 
and  big  excursion-boats  that  passed,  banging 
out  popular  airs  and  alive  w^ith  bunting,  made 
Hefty  feel  very  bitter.  He  determined  that 
when  he  got  back  he  would  go  look  up  the 
policeman  who  had  assaulted  him  and  break 
his  head  with  a  brick  in  a  stocking;  This  plan 
cheered  him  somewhat,  until  he  thought  again 
of  Mary  Casey  at  the  dance  that  night  with 
Patsy  M  off  at,  and  this  excited  him  so  that  he 
determined  madly  to  break  away  and  escape. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  drop  his  crowbar  and 
jump  into  the  river  on  the  instant,  but  his  cooler 
judgment  decided  him  to  wait. 

At  the  northern  end  of  the  Island  the  grass 
runs  high,  and  there  are  no  houses  of  any  sort 
upon  it.  It  reaches  out  into  a  rocky  point, 
where  it  touches  the  still  terribly  swift  eddies  of 
Hell  Gate,  and  its  sharp  front  divides  the  water 
and  directs  it  toward  Astoria  on  the  east  and 
the  city  on  the  west.  Hefty  determined  to 
walk  off  from  the  gang  of  workmen  until  he 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVER 

could  drop  into  this  grass  and  to  lie  there  until 
night.  This  would  be  easy,  as  there  was  only 
one  man  to  watch  them,  for  they  were  all  there 
for  only  ten  days  or  one  month,  and  the  idea 
that  they  should  try  to  escape  was  hardly  con 
sidered.  So  Hefty  edged  off  farther  from  the 
gang,  and  then,  while  the  guard  was  busy  light 
ing  his  pipe,  dropped  into  the  long  grass  and 
lay  there  quietly,  after  first  ridding  himself  of 
his  shoes  and  jacket.  At  six  o'clock  a  bell 
tolled  and  the  guard  marched  away,  with  his 
gang  shambling  after  him.  Hefty  guessed  they 
would  not  miss  him  until  they  came  to  count 
heads  at  supper-time;  but  even  now  it  was 
already  dark,  and  lights  were  showing  on  the 
opposite  bank.  He  had  selected  the  place  he 
meant  to  swim  for — a  green  bank  below  a  row 
of  new  tenements,  a  place  where  a  few  bushes 
still  stood,  and  where  the  boys  of  Harlem  hid 
their  clothes  when  they  went  in  swimming. 

At  half-past  seven  it  was  quite  dark,  so  dark, 
in  fact,  that  the  three  lanterns  which  came 
tossing  toward  him  told  Hefty  that  his  ab 
sence  had  been  discovered.  He  rose  quickly 
and  stepped  cautiously,  instead  of  diving,  into 
the  river,  for  he  was  fearful  of  hidden  rocks. 
The  current  was  much  stronger  than  he  had 
imagined,  and  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  with 

90 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE   EAST  RIVER 

the  water  pulling  at  his  knees,  but  only  for  a 
moment;  for  the  men  were  hunting  for  him  in 
the  grass. 

He  drew  the  gray  cotton  shirt  from  his  shoul 
ders,  and  threw  it  back  of  him  with  an  exclama 
tion  of  disgust,  and  of  relief  at  being  a  free  man 
again,  and  struck  his  broad,  bare  chest  and  the 
biceps  of  his  arms  with  a  little  gasp  of  pleasure 
in  their  perfect  strength,  and  then  bent  forward 
and  slid  into  the  river. 

The  current  from  the  opening  at  Hell  Gate 
caught  him  up  as  though  he  had  been  a  plank. 
It  tossed  him  and  twisted  him  and  sucked  him 
down.  He  beat  his  way  for  a  second  to  the 
surface  and  gasped  for  breath  and  was  drawn 
down  again,  striking  savagely  at  the  eddies 
which  seemed  to  twist  his  limbs  into  useless, 
heavy  masses  of  flesh  and  muscle.  Then  he 
dived  down  and  down,  seeking  a  possibly  less 
rapid  current  at  the  muddy  bottom  of  the  river; 
but  the  current  drew  him  up  again  until  he 
reached  the  top,  just  in  time,  so  it  seemed  to 
him,  to  breathe  the  pure  air  before  his  lungs 
split  with  the  awful  pressure.  He  was  gloriously 
and  fiercely  excited  by  the  unexpected  strength 
of  his  opponent  and  the  probably  fatal  outcome 
of  his  adventure.  He  stopped  struggling,  that 
he  might  gain  fresh  strength,  and  let  the  cur 
rent  bear  him  where  it  would,  until  he  saw  that 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE   EAST  RIVER 

it  was  carrying  him  swiftly  to  the  shore  and  to 
the  rocks  of  the  Island.  And  then  he  dived 
again  and  beat  his  way  along  the  bottom, 
clutching  with  his  hands  at  the  soft,  thick  mud, 
and  rising  only  to  gasp  for  breath  and  sink 
again.  His  eyes  were  smarting  hotly,  and  his 
head  and  breast  ached  with  pressure  that  seemed 
to  come  from  the  inside  and  threatened  to  burst 
its  way  out.  His  arms  had  grown  like  lead 
and  had  lost  their  strength,  and  his  legs  were 
swept  and  twisted  away  from  his  control  and 
were  numb  and  useless.  He  assured  himself 
fiercely  that  he  could  not  have  been  in  the 
water  for  more  than  five  minutes  at  the  longest, 
and  reminded  himself  that  he  had  often  before 
lived  in  it  for  hours,  and  that  this  power,  \vhich 
was  so  much  greater  than  his  own,  could  not 
outlast  him.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  abate 
ment  in  the  swift,  cruel  uncertainty  of  its  move 
ment,  and  it  bore  him  on  and  down  or  up  as  it 
pleased.  The  lights  on  the  shore  became  indis 
tinct,  and  he  finally  confused  the  two  shores, 
and  gave  up  hope  of  reaching  the  New  York 
side,  except  by  accident,  and  hoped  only  to 
reach  some  solid  land  alive.  He  did  not  go 
over  all  of  his  past  life,  but  the  vision  of  Mary 
Casey  did  come  to  him,  and  how  she  would  not 
know  that  he  had  been  innocent.  It  was  a 
little  thing  to  distress  himself  about  at  such  a 

92 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE   EAST  RIVER 

time,  but  it  hurt  him  keenly.  And  then  the 
lights  grew  blurred,  and  he  felt  that  he  was 
making  heavy  mechanical  strokes  that  barely 
kept  his  lips  above  the  water-line.  He  felt  the 
current  slacken  perceptibly,  but  he  was  too 
much  exhausted  to  take  advantage  of  it,  and 
drifted  forward  with  it,  splashing  feebly  like  a 
dog,  and  holding  his  head  back  with  a  desperate 
effort.  A  huge,  black  shadow,  only  a  shade 
blacker  than  the  water  around  him,  loomed  up 
suddenly  on  his  right,  and  he  saw  a  man's  face 
appear  in  the  light  of  a  hatchway  and  disap 
pear  again. 

"Help!"  he  cried,  "help!"  but  his  voice 
sounded  far  away  and  barely  audible.  He 
struck  out  desperately  against  the  current,  and 
turned  on  his  back  and  tried  to  keep  himself 
afloat  where  he  was.  "Help!"  he  called  again, 
feebly,  grudging  the  strength .  it  took  to  call 
even  that.  "Help!  Quick,  for  God's  sake! 
help  me!" 

Something  heavy,  black,  and  wet  struck  him 
sharply  in  the  face  and  fell  with  a  splash  on 
the  water  beside  him.  He  clutched  for  it 
quickly,  and  clasped  it  with  both  hands  and 
felt  it  grow  taut,  and  then  gave  up  thinking, 
and  they  pulled  him  on  board. 

When  he  came  to  himself,  the  captain  of  the 
canal-boat  stooped  and  took  a  fold  of  the  gray 

93 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVER 

trousers  between  his  thumb  and  finger.  Then 
he  raised  his  head  and  glanced  across  at  the  big 
black  Island,  where  lights  were  still  moving 
about  on  the  shore,  and  whistled  softly.  But 
Hefty  looked  at  him  so  beseechingly  that  he 
arose  and  came  back  with  a  pair  of  old  boots 
and  a  suit  of  blue  jeans. 

"Will  you  send  these  back  to  me  to-mor 
row?"  he  asked. 

"Sure,"  said  Hefty. 

"And  what'II  I  do  with  these?"  said  the  cap 
tain,  holding  up  the  gray  trousers. 

"Anything  you  want,  except  to  wear  'em," 
said  Mr.  Burke,  feebly,  with  a  grin. 

One  hour  later  Miss  Casey  was  standing  up 
with  Mr.  Patsy  MofFat  for  the  grand  march  of 
the  grand  ball  of  the  Jolly  Fellows'  Pleasure 
Club  of  the  Fourteenth  Ward,  held  at  the  Pal 
ace  Garden.  The  band  was  just  starting  the 
"Boulanger  March,"  and  Mr.  MofFat  was  say 
ing  wittily  that  it  was  warm  enough  to  eat  ice, 
when  Mr.  Hefty  Burke  shouldered  in  between 
him  and  Miss  Casey.  He  was  dressed  in  his 
best  suit  of  clothes,  and  his  hair  was  conspicu 
ously  damp. 

"Excuse  me,  Patsy,"  said  Mr.  Burke,  as  he 
took  Miss  Casey's  arm  in  his,  "but  this  march 
is  promised  to  me.  I'm  sorry  I  was  late,  and 

94 


A  LEANDER  OF  THE  EAST  RIVER 

I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you;  but  you're  like  the 
lad  that  drives  the  hansom  cab,  see? — you're 
not  in  it." 

"But,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Casey,  later,  "you 
shouldn't  have  kept  me  a-waiting.  It  wasn't 
civil." 

"I  know,"  assented  Hefty,  gloomily,  "but  I 
came  as  soon  as  I  could.  I  even  went  widout 
me  supper  so's  to  get  here;  an*  they  wuz  ex- 
pectin'  me  to  stay  to  supper,  too." 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

HEFTY  BURKE  was  once  clubbed  by  a  police 
man  named  McCIuire,  who  excused  the  club 
bing  to  his  Honor  by  swearing  that  Hefty  had 
been  drunk  and  disorderly,  which  was  not  true. 
Hefty  got  away  from  the  Island  by  swimming 
the  East  River,  and  swore  to  get  even  with  the 
policeman.  This  story  tells  how  he  got  even. 

Mr.  Carstairs  was  an  artist  who  had  made 
his  first  great  success  by  painting  figures  and 
landscapes  in  Brittany.  He  had  a  studio  at 
Fifty-eighth  Street  and  Sixth  Avenue,  and  was 
engaged  on  an  historical  subject  in  which  there 
were  three  figures.  One  was  a  knight  in  full 
armor,  and  the  other  was  a  Moor,  and  the  third 
was  the  figure  of  a  woman.  The  suit  of  armor 
had  been  purchased  by  Mr.  Carstairs  in  Paris, 
and  was  believed  to  have  been  worn  by  a  brave 
nobleman,  one  of  whose  extravagant  descend 
ants  had  sold  everything  belonging  to  his  family 
in  order  to  get  money  with  which  to  play  bac 
carat.  Carstairs  was  at  the  sale  and  paid  a 
large  price  for  the  suit  of  armor  which  the 
Marquis  de  Neuville  had  worn,  and  set  it  up 
in  a  corner  of  his  studio.  It  was  in  eight  or  a 

06 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

dozen  pieces,  and  quite  heavy,  but  was  wonder 
fully  carved  and  inlaid  with  silver,  and  there 
were  dents  on  it  that  showed  where  a  Saracen's 
scimitar  had  been  dulled  and  many  a  brave 
knight's  spear  had  struck.  Mr.  Carstairs  had 
paid  so  much  for  it  that  he  thought  he  ought 
to  make  a  better  use  of  it,  if  possible,  than  sim 
ply  to  keep  it  dusted  and  show  it  off  to  his 
friends.  So  he  began  this  historical  picture, 
and  engaged  Hefty  Burke  to  pose  as  the  knight 
and  wear  the  armor.  Hefty 's  features  were  not 
exactly  the  sort  of  features  you  would  imagine  a 
Marquis  de  Neuville  would  have;  but  as  his 
visor  was  down  in  the  picture,  it  did  not  make 
much  material  difference;  and  as  his  figure  was 
superb,  he  answered  very  well.  Hefty  drove  an 
ice-wagon  during  business  hours,  and,  as  a  per 
sonal  favor  to  Mr.  Carstairs,  agreed  to  pose 
for  him,  for  a  consideration,  two  afternoons  of 
each  week,  and  to  sleep  in  the  studio  at  night, 
for  it  was  filled  with  valuable  things. 

The  armor  was  a  never-ending  source  of 
amazement  and  bewilderment  to  Hefty.  He 
could  not  understand  why  a  man  would  wear 
such  a  suit,  and  especially  when  he  went  out 
to  fight.  It  was  the  last  thing  in  the  world  he 
would  individually  have  selected  in  which  to 
make  war. 

"Ef  I  was  goin'  to  scrap  wid  anybody,"  he 
97 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

said  to  Mr.  Carstairs,  "I'd  as  lief  tie  meself  up 
wid  dumb-bells  as  take  to  carry  all  this  stuff  on 
me.  A  man  wid  a  baseball  bat  and  swimmin' 
tights  on  could  dance  all  around  youse  and 
knock  spots  out  of  one  of  these  things.  The 
other  lad  wouldn't  be  in  it.  Why,  before  he 
could  lift  his  legs  or  get  his  hands  up  you  cud 
hit  him  on  his  helmet,  and  he  wouldn't  know 
what  killed  him.  They  must  hev  sat  down  to 
fight  in  them  days." 

Mr.  Carstairs  painted  on  in  silence  and  smiled 
grimly. 

"I'd  like  to  have  seen  a  go  with  the  parties 
fixed  out  in  a  pair  of  these  things,"  continued 
Hefty.  "I'd  bet  on  the  lad  that  got  in  the 
first  whack.  He  wouldn't  have  to  do  nothing 
but  shove  the  other  one  over  on  his  back  and 
fall  on  him.  Why,  I  guess  this  weighs  half  a 
ton  if  it  weighs  an  ounce !" 

For  all  his  contempt,  Hefty  had  a  secret  ad 
miration  for  the  ancient  marquis  who  had  worn 
this  suit,  and  had  been  strong  enough  to  carry 
its  weight  and  demolish  his  enemies  besides. 
The  marks  on  the  armor  interested  him  greatly, 
and  he  was  very  much  impressed  one  day  when 
he  found  what  he  declared  to  be  blood-stains 
on  the  lining  of  the  helmet. 

"I  guess  the  old  feller  that  wore  this  was  a 
sport,  eh?"  he  said,  proudly,  shaking  the  pieces 

98 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

on  his  arms  until  they  rattled.  "I  guess  he 
done  'em  up  pretty  well  for  all  these  handicaps. 
I'll  bet  when  he  got  to  falling  around  on  'em 
and  butting  'em  with  this  fire  helmet  he  made 
'em  purty  tired.  Don't  youse  think  so?" 

Young  Carstairs  said  he  didn't  doubt  it  for  a 
moment. 

The  Small  Hours  Social  Club  was  to  give  a 
prize  masquerade  ball  at  the  Palace  Garden  on 
New  Year's  Night,  and  Hefty  had  decided  to 
go.  Every  gentleman  dancer  was  to  get  a 
white  silk  badge  with  a  gold  tassel,  and  every 
committeeman  received  a  blue  badge  with 
*' Committee"  written  across  it  in  brass  letters. 
It  cost  three  dollars  to  be  a  committeeman,  but 
only  one  dollar  "for  self  and  lady."  There  were 
three  prizes.  One  of  a  silver  water-pitcher  for 
the  "handsomest-costumed  lady  dancer,"  an 
accordion  for  the  "best-dressed  gent,"  and  a 
cake  for  the  most  original  idea  in  costume, 
whether  worn  by  "gent  or  lady."  Hefty,  as 
well  as  many  others,  made  up  his  mind  to  get 
the  accordion,  if  it  cost  him  as  much  as  seven 
dollars,  which  was  half  of  his  week's  wages.  It 
wasn't  the  prize  he  wanted  so  much,  but  he 
thought  of  the  impression  it  would  make  on 
Miss  Casey,  whose  father  was  the  well-known 
janitor  of  that  name.  They  had  been  engaged 
for  some  time,  but  the  engagement  hung  fire, 

99 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

and  Hefty  thought  that  a  becoming  and  appro 
priate  costume  might  hasten  matters  a  little. 
He  was  undecided  as  to  whether  he  should  go 
as  an  Indian  or  as  a  courtier  of  the  time  of 
Charles  II.  Auchmuty  Stein,  of  the  Bowery, 
who  supplies  costumes  and  wigs  at  reasonable 
rates,  was  of  the  opinion  that  a  neat  sailor  suit 
of  light  blue  silk  and  decorated  with  white 
anchors  was  about  the  "brettiest  thing  in  the 
shop,  and  sheap  at  fife  dollars";  but  Hefty  said 
he  never  saw  a  sailor  in  silk  yet,  and  he  didn't 
think  they  ever  wore  it.  He  couldn't  see  how 
they  could  keep  the  tar  and  salt-water  from 
ruining  it. 

The  Charles  II.  court  suit  was  very  handsome, 
and  consisted  of  red  cotton  tights,  blue  velvet 
een  doublet,  and  a  blue  cloak  lined  with  pale 
pink  silk.  A  yellow  wig  went  with  this,  and  a 
jewelled  sword  which  would  not  come  out  of  the 
scabbard.  It  could  be  had  for  seven  dollars  a 
night.  Hefty  was  still  in  doubt  about  it  and 
was  much  perplexed.  Auchmuty  Stein  told 
him  Charlie  Macklin,  the  Third  Avenue  ticket- 
chopper,  was  after  the  same  suit,  and  that  he 
had  better  take  it  while  he  could  get  it.  But 
Hefty  said  he'd  think  about  it.  The  next  day 
was  his  day  for  posing,  and  as  he  stood  arrayed 
in  the  Marquis  de  Neuville's  suit  of  mail  he 
chanced  to  see  himself  in  one  of  the  long  mir- 

100 


HOW   HEFTY   BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

rors,  and  was  for  the  first  time  so  struck  with 
the  ferocity  of  his  appearance  that  he  deter 
mined  to  see  if  old  man  Stein  had  not  a  suit  of 
imitation  armor,  which  would  not  be  so  heavy 
and  would  look  as  well.  But  the  more  Hefty 
thought  of  it,  the  more  he  believed  that  only 
the  real  suit  would  do.  Its  associations,  its 
blood-stains,  and  the  real  silver  tracings  haunted 
him,  and  he  half  decided  to  ask  Mr.  Carstairs 
to  lend  it  to  him. 

But  then  he  remembered  overhearing  Car- 
stairs  tell  a  brother-artist  that  he  had  paid  two 
thousand  francs  for  it,  and,  though  he  did  not 
know  how  much  a  franc  might  be,  two  thou 
sand  of  anything  was  too  much  to  wear  around 
at  a  masquerade  ball.  But  the  thing  haunted 
him.  He  was  sure  if  Miss  Casey  saw  him  in 
that  suit  she  would  never  look  at  Charlie  Mack- 
lin  again. 

"They  wouldn't  be  in  the  same  town  with 
me,"  said  Hefty.  "And  I'd  get  two  of  the 
prizes,  sure." 

He  was  in  great  perplexity,  when  good  luck  or 
bad  luck  settled  it  for  him. 

"Burke,"  said  Mr.  Carstairs,  "Mrs.  Carstairs 
and  I  are  going  out  of  town  for  New  Year's 
Day,  and  will  be  gone  until  Sunday.  Take  a 
turn  through  the  rooms  each  night,  will  you?  as 
well  as  the  studio,  and  see  that  everything  is 

101 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

all  right."  That  clinched  the  matter  for  Hefty. 
He  determined  to  go  as  far  as  the  Palace  Gar 
den  as  the  Marquis  de  Neuville,  and  say  noth 
ing  whatever  to  Mr.  Carstairs  about  it. 

Stuff  McGovern,  who  drove  a  night-hawk  and 
who  was  a  particular  admirer  of  Hefty's,  even 
though  as  a  cabman  he  was  in  a  higher  social 
scale  than  the  driver  of  an  ice-cart,  agreed  to 
carry  Hefty  and  his  half-ton  of  armor  to  the 
Garden,  and  call  for  him  when  the  ball  was 
over. 

"Holee  smoke!"  gasped  Mr.  McGovern,  as 
Hefty  stumbled  heavily  across  the  pavement 
with  an  overcoat  over  his  armor  and  his  helmet 
under  his  arm.  "Do  you  expect  to  do  much 
dancing  in  that  sheet-iron?" 

"It's  the  looks  of  the  thing  I'm  gambling 
on,"  said  Hefty.  "I  look  like  a  locomoteeve 
when  I  get  this  stovepipe  on  me  head." 

Hefty  put  on  his  helmet  in  the  cab  and  pulled 
down  the  visor,  and  when  he  alighted  the  crowd 
around  the  door  was  too  greatly  awed  to  jeer, 
but  stood  silent  with  breathless  admiration. 
He  had  great  difficulty  in  mounting  the  some 
what  steep  flight  of  stairs  which  led  to  the  danc 
ing-room,  and  considered  gloomily  that  in  the 
event  of  a  fire  he  would  have  a  very  small 
chance  of  getting  out  alive.  He  made  so  much 
noise  coming  up  that  the  committeemen  thought 

1 02 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

some  one  was  rolling  some  one  else  down  the 
stairs,  and  came  out  to  see  the  fight.  They 
observed  Hefty's  approach  with  whispered  awe 
and  amazement. 

"Wot  are  you?"  asked  the  man  at  the 
door.  "Youse  needn't  give  your  real  name," 
he  explained,  politely.  "  But  you've  got  to 
give  something  if  youse  are  trying  for  a  prize, 
see?" 

"I'm  the  Black  Knight,"  said  Hefty  in  a 
hoarse  voice,  "the  Marquis  de  Newveal;  and 
when  it  comes  to  scrappin'  wid  der  perlice,  I'm 
de  best  in  der  business." 

This  last  statement  was  entirely  impromptu, 
and  inspired  by  the  presence  of  Policeman  Mc- 
Cluire,  who,  with  several  others,  had  been  de 
tailed  to  keep  order.  McCIuire  took  this  chal 
lenge  calmly,  and  looked  down  and  smiled  at 
Hefty's  feet. 

"He  looks  like  a  stove  on  two  legs,"  he  said 
to  the  crowd.  The  crowd,  as  a  matter  of  pol 
icy,  laughed. 

fe  You'll  look  like  a  fool  standing  on  his  head 
in  a  snow-bank  if  you  talk  impudent  to  me," 
said  Hefty,  epigrammatically,  from  behind  the 
barrier  of  his  iron  mask.  What  might  have 
happened  next  did  not  happen,  because  at  that 
moment  the  music  sounded  for  the  grand 
march,  and  Hefty  and  the  policeman  were 

103 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

swept  apart  by  the  crowd  of  Indians,  Mexicans, 
courtiers,  negro  minstrels,  and  clowns.  Hefty 
stamped  across  the  wraxed  floor  about  as  lightly 
as  a  safe  could  do  it  if  a  safe  could  walk.  He 
found  Miss  Casey  after  the  march  and  disclosed 
his  identity.  She  promised  not  to  tell,  and  was 
plainly  delighted  and  flattered  at  being  seen 
with  the  distinct  sensation  of  the  ball.  "Say, 
Hefty,"  she  said,  "they  just  ain't  in  it  with 
you.  You'll  take  the  two  prizes  sure.  How  do 
I  look?" 

"Out  o'  sight,"  said  Hefty.  "Never  saw 
you  lookin'  better." 

'  That's   good,"   said   Miss    Casey,   simply, 
and  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

Hefty  was  undoubtedly  a  great  success.  The 
men  came  around  him  and  pawed  him,  and  felt 
the  dents  in  the  armor,  and  tried  the  weight  of 
it  by  holding  up  one  of  his  arms,  and  handled 
him  generally  as  though  he  were  a  freak  in  a 
museum.  "Let  'em  alone,"  said  Hefty  to  Miss 
Casey,  "I'm  not  sayin'  a  word.  Let  the  judges 
get  on  to  the  sensation  I'm  a-makin',  and  I'll 
walk  off  with  the  prizes.  The  crowd  is  wid  me 


sure." 


At  midnight  the  judges  pounded  on  a  table 
for  order,  and  announced  that  after  much  de 
bate  they  gave  the  first  prize  to  Miss  Lizzie 
Cannon,  of  Hester  Street,  for  "having  the  most 

104 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

handsomest  costume  on  the  floor,  that  of  Co 
lumbia."  The  fact  that  Mr.  "Buck"  Masters, 
who  was  one  of  the  judges,  and  who  was  en 
gaged  to  Miss  Cannon,  had  said  that  he  would 
pound  things  out  of  the  other  judges  if  they 
gave  the  prize  elsewhere  was  not  known,  but 
the  decision  met  with  as  general  satisfaction  as 
could  well  be  expected. 

"The  second  prize,"  said  the  judges,  "goes  to 
the  gent  calling  himself  the  Black  Knight — him 
in  the  iron  leggings — and  the  other  prize  for 
the  most  original  costume  goes  to  him,  too." 
Half  the  crowd  cheered  at  this,  and  only  one 
man  hissed.  Hefty,  filled  with  joy  and  with 
the  anticipation  of  the  elegance  the  ice-pitcher 
would  lend  to  his  flat  when  he  married  Miss 
Casey,  and  how  conveniently  he  could  fill  it, 
turned  on  this  gentleman  and  told  him  that 
only  geese  hissed. 

The  gentleman,  who  had  spent  much  time  on 
his  costume,  and  who  had  been  assured  by 
each  judge  on  each  occasion  that  evening  when 
he  had  treated  him  to  beer  that  he  would  get 
the  prize,  told  Hefty  to  go  lie  down.  It  has 
never  been  explained  just  what  horrible  insult 
lies  back  of  this  advice,  but  it  is  a  very  danger 
ous  thing  to  tell  a  gentleman  to  do.  Hefty 
lifted  one  foot  heavily  and  bore  down  on  the 
disappointed  masker  like  an  ironclad  in  a  heavy 

105 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

sea.  But  before  he  could  reach  him  Policeman 
McCIuire,  mindful  of  the  insult  put  upon  him 
by  this  stranger,  sprang  between  them  and  said: 
"Here,  now,  no  scrapping  here;  get  out  of  this," 
and  shoved  Hefty  back  with  his  hand.  Hefty 
uttered  a  mighty  howl  of  wrath  and  long- 
cherished  anger,  and  lurched  forward,  but  be 
fore  he  could  reach  his  old-time  enemy  three 
policemen  had  him  around  the  arms  and  by 
the  leg,  and  he  was  as  effectually  stopped  as 
though  he  had  been  chained  to  the  floor. 

"Let  go  o'  me,"  said  Hefty,  wildly.  "You're 
smotherin'  me.  Give  me  a  fair  chance  at  him." 

But  they  would  not  give  him  any  sort  of  a 
chance.  They  rushed  him  down  the  steep 
stairs,  and  while  McCIuire  ran  ahead  two  more 
pushed  back  the  crowd  that  had  surged  uncer 
tainly  forward  to  the  rescue.  If  Hefty  had 
declared  his  identity  the  police  would  have  had 
a  very  sad  time  of  it;  but  that  he  must  not  get 
Mr.  Carstairs's  two-thousand-franc  suit  into 
trouble  was  all  that  filled  Hefty's  mind,  and  all 
that  he  wanted  was  to  escape.  Three  police 
men  walked  with  him  down  the  street.  They 
said  they  knew  where  he  lived,  and  that  they 
were  only  going  to  take  him  home.  They  said 
this  because  they  were  afraid  the  crowd  would 
interfere  if  it  imagined  Hefty  was  being  led  to 
the  precinct  station-house. 

1 06 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

But  Hefty  knew  where  he  was  going  as  soon 
as  he  turned  the  next  corner  and  was  started  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  station-house.  There 
was  still  quite  a  small  crowd  at  his  heels,  and 
Stuff  McGovern  was  driving  along  at  the  side 
anxious  to  help,  but  fearful  to  do  anything,  as 
Hefty  had  told  him  not  to  let  any  one  know 
who  his  fare  had  been  and  that  his  incognito 
must  be  preserved. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Hefty's  head  like  hot 
liquor.  To  be  arrested  for  nothing,  and  by 
that  thing  McCIuire,  and  to  have  the  noble 
coat-of-mail  of  the  Marquis  de  Neuville  locked 
up  in  a  dirty  cell  and  probably  ruined,  and  to 
lose  his  position  with  Carstairs,  who  had  always 
treated  him  so  well,  it  was  terrible!  It  could 
not  be !  He  looked  through  his  visor;  to  the 
right  and  to  the  left  a  policeman  walked  on  each 
side  of  him  with  his  hand  on  his  iron  sleeve, 
and  McCIuire  marched  proudly  before.  The 
dim  lamps  of  McGovern's  night-hawk  shone  at 
the  side  of  the  procession  and  showed  the  crowd 
trailing  on  behind.  Suddenly  Hefty  threw  up 

his  visor.     "Stuff,"  he  cried,  "are  youse  with 

?» 
__. 

He  did  not  wait  for  any  answer,  but  swung 
back  his  two  iron  arms  and  then  brought  them 
forward  with  a  sweep  on  to  the  back  of  the  necks 
of  the  two  policemen.  They  went  down  and 

107 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

forward  as  if  a  lamp-post  had  fallen  on  them, 
but  were  up  again  in  a  second.  But  before  they 
could  rise  Hefty  set  his  teeth,  and  with  a  gurgle 
of  joy  butted  his  iron  helmet  into  McCIuire's 
back  and  sent  him  flying  forward  into  a  snow 
bank.  Then  he  threw  himself  on  him  and 
buried  him  under  three  hundred  pounds  of  iron 
and  flesh  and  blood,  and  beat  him  with  his 
mailed  hand  over  the  head  and  choked  the 
snow  and  ice  down  into  his  throat  and  nos 
trils. 

"You'll  club  me  again,  will  you?"  he  cried. 
'' You'll  send  me  to  the  Island?"  The  two  po 
licemen  were  pounding  him  with  their  night 
sticks  as  effectually  as  though  they  were  rap 
ping  on  a  door-step;  and  the  crowd,  seeing  this, 
fell  on  them  from  behind,  led  by  Stuff  McGov- 
ern  with  his  whip,  and  rolled  them  in  the  snow 
and  tried  to  tear  off  their  coat-tails,  which 
means  money  out  of  the  policeman's  own  pocket 
for  repairs,  and  hurts  more  than  broken  ribs, 
as  the  Police  Benefit  Society  pays  for  them. 

"Now  then,  boys,  get  me  into  a  cab,"  cried 
Hefty.  They  lifted  him  in  and  obligingly  blew 
out  the  lights  so  that  the  police  could  not  see  its 
number,  and  Stuff  drove  Hefty  proudly  home. 
"I  guess  I'm  even  with  that  cop  now,"  said 
Hefty  as  he  stood  at  the  door  of  the  studio 
building,  perspiring  and  happy;  "but  if  them 

1 08 


HOW  HEFTY  BURKE  GOT  EVEN 

cops  ever  find  out  who  the  Black  Knight  was, 
I'll  go  away  for  six  months  on  the  Island.  I 
guess,"  he  added,  thoughtfully,  "I'll  have  to 
give  them  two  prizes  up." 


VAN  BIBBER  AND  THE 
SWAN-BOATS 

IT  was  very  hot  in  the  Park,  and  young  Van 
Bibber,  who  has  a  good  heart  and  a  great  deal 
more  money  than  good-hearted  people  gener 
ally  get,  was  cross  and  somnolent.  He  had 
told  his  groom  to  bring  a  horse  he  wanted  to 
try  to  the  Fifty-ninth  Street  entrance  at  ten 
o'clock  and  the  groom  had  not  appeared. 
Hence  Van  Bibber's  crossness. 

He  waited  as  long  as  his  dignity  would  allow, 
and  then  turned  off  into  a  by-lane  and  dropped 
on  a  bench  and  looked  gloomily  at  the  Lohen 
grin  swans  with  the  paddle-wheel  attachment 
that  circle  around  the  lake.  They  struck  him 
as  the  most  idiotic  inventions  he  had  ever  seen, 
and  he  pitied,  with  the  pity  of  a  man  who  con 
templates  crossing  the  ocean  to  be  measured 
for  his  fall  clothes,  the  people  who  could  find 
delight  in  having  some  one  paddle  them  around 
an  artificial  lake. 

Two  little  girls  from  the  East  Side,  with  a 
lunch  basket,  and  an  older  girl  with  her  hair 
down  her  back,  sat  down  on  a  bench  beside  him 
and  gazed  at  the  swans. 

The  place  was  becoming  too  popular,  and 
no 


VAN  BIBBER  AND  THE  SWAN-BOATS 

Van  Bibber  decided  to  move  on.  But  the 
bench  on  which  he  sat  was  in  the  shade,  and 
the  asphalt  walk  leading  to  the  street  was  in 
the  sun,  and  his  cigarette  was  soothing,  so  he 
ignored  the  near  presence  of  the  three  little 
girls,  and  remained  where  he  was. 

"I  s'pose,"  said  one  of  the  two  little  girls,  in 
a  high,  public  school  voice,  "there's  lots  to  see 
from  those  swan-boats  that  youse  can't  see 
from  the  banks." 

"Oh,  lots,"  assented  the  girl  with  long  hair. 

"If  you  walked  all  round  the  lake,  clear  all 
the  way  round,  you  could  see  all  there  is  to 
see,"  said  the  third,  "except  what  there's  in 
the  middle  where  the  island  is." 

"I  guess  it's  mighty  wild  on  that  island," 
suggested  the  youngest. 

"Eddie  Case  he  took  a  trip  around  the  lake 
on  a  swan-boat  the  other  day.  He  said  that  it 
was  grand.  He  said  youse  could  see  fishes  and 
ducks,  and  that  it  looked  just  as  if  there  were 
snakes  and  things  on  the  island." 

"What  sort  of  things?"  asked  the  other  one, 
in  a  hushed  voice. 

'  Well,  wild  things,"  explained  the  elder, 
vaguely;  "bears  and  animals  like  that,  that 
grow  in  wild  places." 

Van  Bibber  lit  a  fresh  cigarette,  and  settled 
himself  comfortably  and  unreservedly  to  listen. 

in 


VAN  BIBBER  AND  THE  SWAN-BOATS 

"My,  but  I'd  like  to  take  a  trip  just  once," 
said  the  youngest,  under  her  breath.  Then  she 
clasped  her  fingers  together  and  looked  up 
anxiously  at  the  elder  girl,  who  glanced  at  her 
with  severe  reproach. 

"Why,  Mame  I"  she  said;  "ain't  you  ashamed! 
Ain't  you  having  a  good  time  'nuff  without 
wishing  for  everything  you  set  your  eyes  on?" 

Van  Bibber  wondered  at  this — why  humans 
should  want  to  ride  around  on  the  swans  in  the 
first  place,  and  why,  if  they  had  such  a  wild 
desire,  they  should  not  gratify  it. 

"Why,  it  costs  more'n  it  costs  to  come  all 
the  way  up- town  in  an  open  car,"  added  the 
elder  girl,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  unspoken  ques 
tion. 

The  younger  girl  sighed  at  this,  and  nodded 
her  head  in  submission,  but  blinked  longingly 
at  the  big  swans  and  the  parti-colored  awning 
and  the  red  seats. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Van  Bibber,  ad 
dressing  himself  uneasily  to  the  eldest  girl  with 
long  hair,  "but  if  the  little  girl  would  like  to  go 
around  in  one  of  those  things,  and — and  hasn't 
brought  the  change  with  her,  you  know,  I'm 
sure  I  should  be  very  glad  if  she'd  allow  me  to 
send  her  around." 

"Oh !  will  you?"  exclaimed  the  little  girl,  with 
a  jump,  and  so  sharply  and  in  such  a  shrill 

112 


VAN  BIBBER  AND  THE  SWAN-BOATS 

voice  that  Van  Bibber  shuddered.  But  the 
elder  girl  objected. 

"I'm  afraid  maw  wouldn't  like  our  taking 
money  from  any  one  we  didn't  know,"  she  said 
with  dignity;  "but  if  you're  going  anyway  and 
want  company " 

"Oh!  my,  no,"  said  Van  Bibber,  hurriedly.1 
He  tried  to  picture  himself  riding  around  the 
lake  behind  a  tin  swan  with  three  little  girls 
from  the  East  Side,  and  a  lunch  basket. 

"Then,"  said  the  head  of  the  trio,  "we  can't 

go-" 

There  was  such  a  look  of  uncomplaining  ac 
ceptance  of  this  verdict  on  the  part  of  the  two 
little  girls,  that  Van  Bibber  felt  uncomfortable. 
He  looked  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  and  then 
said  desperately,  '  Well,  come  along."  The 
young  man  in  a  blue  flannel  shirt,  who  did  the 
paddling,  smiled  at  Van  Bibber's  riding-breeches, 
which  were  so  very  loose  at  one  end  and  so 
very  tight  at  the  other,  and  at  his  gloves  and 
crop.  But  Van  Bibber  pretended  not  to  care. 
The  three  little  girls  placed  the  awful  lunch 
basket  on  the  front  seat  and  sat  on  the  middle 
one,  and  Van  Bibber  cowered  in  the  back. 
They  were  hushed  in  silent  ecstasy  when  it 
started,  and  gave  little  gasps  of  pleasure  when 
it  careened  slightly  in  turning.  It  was  shady 
under  the  awning,  and  the  motion  was  pleasant 

"3 


VAN  BIBBER  AND  THE  SWAN-BOATS 

enough,  but  Van  Bibber  was  so  afraid  some  one 
would  see  him  that  he  failed  to  enjoy  it. 

But  as  soon  as  they  passed  into  the  narrow 
straits  and  were  shut  in  by  the  bushes  and  were 
out  of  sight  of  the  people,  he  relaxed,  and  began 
to  play  the  host.  He  pointed  out  the  fishes 
among  the  rocks  at  the  edges  of  the  pool,  and 
the  sparrows  and  robins  bathing  and  ruffling 
their  feathers  in  the  shallow  water,  and  agreed 
with  them  about  the  possibility  of  bears,  and 
even  tigers,  in  the  wild  part  of  the  island,  al 
though  the  glimpse  of  the  gray  helmet  of  a 
Park  policeman  made  such  a  supposition  doubt 
ful. 

And  it  really  seemed  as  though  they  were  en 
joying  it  more  than  he  ever  enjoyed  a  trip  up 
the  Sound  on  a  yacht  or  across  the  ocean  on 
a  record-breaking  steamship.  It  seemed  long 
enough  before  they  got  back  to  Van  Bibber, 
but  his  guests  were  evidently  but  barely  satis 
fied.  Still,  all  the  goodness  in  his  nature  would 
not  allow  him  to  go  through  that  ordeal  again. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  boat  eagerly  and  helped 
out  the  girl  with  long  hair  as  though  she  had 
been  a  princess  and  tipped  the  rude  young  man 
who  had  laughed  at  him,  but  who  was  perspir 
ing  now  with  the  work  he  had  done;  and  then 
as  he  turned  to  leave  the  dock  he  came  face  to 
face  with  A  Girl  He  Knew  and  Her  brother. 

114 


VAN  BIBBER  AND  THE  SWAN -BOATS, 

Her  brother  said,  "How're  you,  Van  Bibber? 
Been  taking  a  trip  around  the  world  in  eighty 
minutes?"  And  added  in  a  low  voice,  "Intro 
duce  me  to  your  young  lady  friends  from  Hes 
ter  Street." 

"Ah,  how' re  you — quite  a  surprise!"  gasped 
Van  Bibber,  while  his  late  guests  stared  admir 
ingly  at  the  pretty  young  lady  in  the  riding- 
habit,  and  utterly  refused  to  move  on.  "Been 
taking  ride  on  the  lake,"  stammered  Van  Bib 
ber;  "most  exhilarating.  Young  friends  of 
mine — these  young  ladies  never  rode  on  lake, 
so  I  took  'em.  Did  you  see  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,,  we  saw  you,"  said  Her  brother, 
dryly,  while  she  only  smiled  at  him,  but  so 
kindly  and  with  such  perfect  understanding 
that  Van  Bibber  grew  red  with  pleasure  and 
bought  three  long  strings  of  tickets  for  the  swans 
at  some  absurd  discount,  and  gave  each  little 
girl  a  string. 

"There,"  said  Her  brother  to  the  little  ladies 
from  Hester  Street,  "now  you  can  take  trips 
for  a  week  without  stopping.  Don't  try  to 
smuggle  in  any  laces,  and  don't  forget  to  fee  the 
smoking-room  steward." 

The  Girl  He  Knew  said  they  were  walking 
over  to  the  stables,  and  that  he  had  better  go 
get  his  other  horse  and  join  her,  which  was  to 
be  his  reward  for  taking  care  of  the  young 

115 


w  BIBBER  AND  THE  SWAN-BOATS 

ladies.  And  the  three  little  girls  proceeded 
to  use  up  the  yards  of  tickets  so  industriously 
that  they  were  sunburned  when  they  reached 
the  tenement,  and  went  to  bed  dreaming  of  a 
big  white  swan,  and  a  beautiful  young  gentle 
man  in  patent-leather  riding-boots  and  baggy 
breeches. 


VAN  BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 

THERE  had  been  a  dance  up-town,  but 
as  Van  Bibber  could  not  find  Her  there,  he 
accepted  young  Travers's  suggestion  to  go 
over  to  Jersey  City  and  see  a  "go"  between 
"Dutchy"  Mack  and  a  colored  person  profes 
sionally  known  as  the  Black  Diamond.  They 
covered  up  all  signs  of  their  evening  dress  with 
their  great-coats,  and  filled  their  pockets  with 
cigars,  for  the  smoke  which  surrounds  a  ""go" 
is  trying  to  sensitive  nostrils,  and  they  also 
fastened  their  watches  to  both  key-chains.  Alf 
Alpin,  who  was  acting  as  master  of  ceremonies, 
was  greatly  pleased  and  flattered  at  their  com 
ing,  and  boisterously  insisted  on  their  sitting 
on  the  platform.  The  fact  was  generally  cir 
culated  among  the  spectators  that  the  "two 
gents  in  high  hats"  had  come  in  a  carriage,  and 
this  and  their  patent-leather  boots  made  them 
objects  of  keen  interest.  It  was  even  whispered 
that  they  were  the  "parties"  who  were  putting 
up  the  money  to  back  the  Black  Diamond 
against  the  "Hester  Street  Jackson."  This  in 
itself  entitled  them  to  respect.  Van  Bibber 
was  asked  to  hold  the  watch,  but  he  wisely 

117 


VAN   BIBBER'S   BURGLAR 

declined  the  honor,  which  was  given  to  Andy 
Spielman,  the  sporting  reporter  of  the  Track 
and  Ring,  whose  watch-case  was  covered  with 
diamonds,  and  was  just  the  sort  of  a  watch  a 
timekeeper  should  hold. 

It  was  two  o'clock  before  "Dutchy"  Mack's 
backer  threw  the  sponge  into  the  air,  and  three 
before  they  reached  the  city.  They  had  an 
other  reporter  in  the  cab  with  them  besides  the 
gentleman  who  had  bravely  held  the  watch  in 
the  face  of  several  offers  to  "do  for"  him;  and 
as  Van  Bibber  was  ravenously  hungry,  and  as 
he  doubted  that  he  could  get  anything  at  that 
hour  at  the  club,  they  accepted  Spielman's  in 
vitation  and  went  for  a  porterhouse  steak  and 
onions  at  the  Owl's  Nest,  Gus  McGowan's  all- 
night  restaurant  on  Third  Avenue. 

It  was  a  very  dingy,  dirty  place,  but  it  was 
as  warm  as  the  engine-room  of  a  steamboat, 
and  the  steak  was  perfectly  done  and  tender. 
It  was  too  late  to  go  to  bed,  so  they  sat  around 
the  table,  with  their  chairs  tipped  back  and 
their  knees  against  its  edge.  The  two  club  men 
had  thrown  off  their  great-coats,  and  their  wide 
shirt  fronts  and  silk  facings  shone  grandly  in 
the  smoky  light  of  the  oil  lamps  and  the  red 
glow  from  the  grill  in  the  corner.  They  talked 
about  the  life  the  reporters  led,  and  the  Philis 
tines  asked  foolish  questions,  which  the  gentle- 

118 


VAN   BIBBER'S   BURGLAR 

man  of  the  press  answered  without  showing 
them  how  foolish  they  were. 

"And  I  suppose  you  have  all  sorts  of  curious 
adventures,"  said  Van  Bibber,  tentatively. 

"Well,  no,  not  what  I  would  call  adventures," 
said  one  of  the  reporters.  "I  have  never  seen 
anything  that  could  not  be  explained  or  attrib 
uted  directly  to  some  known  cause,  such  as 
crime  or  poverty  or  drink.  You  may  think  at 
first  that  you  have  stumbled  on  something 
strange  and  romantic,  but  it  comes  to  nothing. 
You  would  suppose  that  in  a  great  city  like  this 
one  would  come  across  something  that  could 
not  be  explained  away — something  mysterious 
or  out  of  the  common,  like  Stevenson's  Suicide 
Club.  But  I  have  not  found  it  so.  Dickens 
once  told  James  Payn  that  the  most  curious 
thing  he  ever  saw  in  his  rambles  around  London 
was  a  ragged  man  who  stood  crouching  under 
the  window  of  a  great  house  where  the  owner 
was  giving  a  ball.  While  the  man  hid  beneath 
a  window  on  the  ground  floor,  a  woman  wonder 
fully  dressed  and  very  beautiful  raised  the  sash 
from  the  inside  and  dropped  her  bouquet  down 
into  the  man's  hand,  and  he  nodded  and  stuck 
it  under  his  coat  and  ran  off  with  it. 

"I  call  that,  now,  a  really  curious  thing  to 
see.  But  I  have  never  come  across  anything 
like  it,  and  I  have  been  in  every  part  of  this 

119 


VAN   BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 

big  city,  and  at  every  hour  of  the  night  and 
morning,  and  I  am  not  lacking  in  imagination 
either,  but  no  captured  maidens  have  ever 
beckoned  to  me  from  barred  windows  nor 
*  white  hands  waved  from  a  passing  hansom/ 
Balzac  and  De  Musset  and  Stevenson  suggest 
that  they  have  had  such  adventures,  but  they 
never  come  to  me.  It  is  all  commonplace  and 
vulgar,  and  always  ends  in  a  police  court  or 
with  a  'found  drowned*  in  the  North  River." 

McGowan,  who  had  fallen  into  a  doze  behind 
the  bar,  woke  suddenly  and  shivered  and  rubbed 
his  shut-sleeves  briskly.  A  woman  knocked  at 
the  side  door  and  begged  for  a  drink  "for  the 
love  of  heaven,"  and  the  man  who  tended  the 
grill  told  her  to  be  off.  They  could  hear  her 
feeling  her  way  against  the  wall  and  cursing  as 
she  staggered  out  of  the  alley.  Three  men  came 
in  with  a  hack  driver  and  wanted  everybody 
to  drink  with  them,  and  became  insolent  when 
the  gentlemen  declined,  and  were  in  consequence 
'hustled  out  one  at  a  time  by  McGowan,  who 
went  to  sleep  again  immediately,  with  his  head 
resting  among  the  cigar  boxes  and  pyramids  of 
glasses  at  the  back  of  the  bar,  and  snored. 

"You  see,"  said  the  reporter,  "it  is  all  like 
this.  Night  in  a  great  city  is  not  picturesque 
and  it  is  not  theatrical.  It  is  sodden,  some 
times  brutal,  exciting  enough  until  you  get 

120 


VAN  BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 

used  to  it,  but  it  runs  in  a  groove.  It  is  dra 
matic,  but  the  plot  is  old  and  the  motives  and 
characters  always  the  same." 

The  rumble  of  heavy  market  wagons  and  the 
rattle  of  milk  carts  told  them  that  it  was  morn 
ing,  and  as  they  opened  the  door  the  cold  fresh 
air  swept  into  the  place  and  made  them  wrap 
their  collars  around  their  throats  and  stamp 
their  feet.  The  morning  wind  swept  down  the 
cross-street  from  the  East  River  and  the  lights 
of  the  street  lamps  and  of  the  saloon  looked  old 
and  tawdry.  Travers  and  the  reporter  went  off 
to  a  Turkish  bath,  and  the  gentleman  who  held 
the  watch,  and  who  had  been  asleep  for  the 
last  hour,  dropped  into  a  night-hawk  and  told 
the  man  to  drive  home.  It  was  almost  clear 
now  and  very  cold,  and  Van  Bibber  determined 
to  walk.  He  had  the  strange  feeling  one  gets 
when  one  stays  up  until  the  sun  rises,  of  having 
lost  a  day  somewhere,  and  the  dance  he  had 
attended  a  few  hours  before  seemed  to  have 
come  off  long  ago,  and  the  fight  in  Jersey  City 
was  far  back  in  the  past. 

The  houses  along  the  cross-street  through 
which  he  walked  were  as  dead  as  so  many  blank 
walls,  and  only  here  and  there  a  lace  curtain 
waved  out  of  the  open  window  where  some 
honest  citizen  was  sleeping.  The  street  was 
quite  deserted;  not  even  a  cat  or  a  policeman 

121 


VAN  BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 

moved  on  it  and  Van  Bibber's  footsteps  sounded 
brisk  on  the  sidewalk.  There  was  a  great  house 
at  the  corner  of  the  avenue  and  the  cross-street 
on  which  he  was  walking.  The  house  faced  the 
avenue  and  a  stone  wall  ran  back  to  the  brown 
stone  stable  which  opened  on  the  side  street. 
There  was  a  door  in  this  wall,  and  as  Van  Bib 
ber  approached  it  on  his  solitary  walk  it  opened 
cautiously,  and  a  man's  head  appeared  in  it 
for  an  instant  and  was  withdrawn  again  like  a 
flash,  and  the  door  snapped  to.  Van  Bibber 
stopped  and  looked  at  the  door  and  at  the 
house  and  up  and  down  the  street.  The  house 
was  tightly  closed,  as  though  some  one  was 
lying  inside  dead,  and  the  streets  were  still 
empty. 

Van  Bibber  could  think  of  nothing  in  his  ap 
pearance  so  dreadful  as  to  frighten  an  honest 
man,  so  he  decided  the  face  he  had  had  a 
glimpse  of  must  belong  to  a  dishonest  one.  It 
was  none  of  his  business,  he  assured  himself, 
but  it  was  curious,  and  he  liked  adventure,  and 
he  would  have  liked  to  prove  his  friend  the  re 
porter,  who  did  not  believe  in  adventure,  in 
the  wrong.  So  he  approached  the  door  si 
lently,  and  jumped  and  caught  at  the  top  of 
the  wall  and  stuck  one  foot  on  the  handle  of 
the  door,  and,  with  the  other  on  the  knocker, 
drew  himself  up  and  looked  cautiously  down 

122 


VAN  BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 

on  the  other  side.  He  had  done  this  so  lightly 
that  the  only  noise  he  made  was  the  rattle  of 
the  door-knob  on  which  his  foot  had  rested, 
and  the  man  inside  thought  that  the  one  out 
side  was  trying  to  open  the  door,  and  placed 
his  shoulder  to  it  and  pressed  against  it  heavily. 
Van  Bibber,  from  his  perch  on  the  top  of  the 
wall,  looked  down  directly  on  the  other's  head 
and  shoulders.  He  could  see  the  top  of  the 
man's  head  only  two  feet  below,  and  he  also 
saw  that  in  one  hand  he  held  a  revolver  and 
that  two  bags  filled  with  projecting  articles  of 
different  sizes  lay  at  his  feet. 

It  did  not  need  explanatory  notes  to  tell 
Van  Bibber  that  the  man  below  had  robbed  the 
big  house  on  the  corner,  and  that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  his  having  passed  when  he  did  the  bur 
glar  would  have  escaped  with  his  treasure.  His 
first  thought  was  that  he  was  not  a  policeman, 
and  that  a  fight  with  a  burglar  was  not  in  his 
line  of  life;  and  this  was  followed  by  the  thought 
that  though  the  gentleman  who  owned  the 
property  in  the  two  bags  was  of  no  interest  to 
him,  he  was,  as  a  respectable  member  of  society, 
more  entitled  to  consideration  than  the  man 
with  the  revolver. 

The  fact  that  he  was  now,  whether  he  liked 
it  or  not,  perched  on  the  top  of  the  wall  like 
Humpty  Dumpty,  and  that  the  burglar  might 

123 


VAN   BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 

see  him  and  shoot  him  the  next  minute,  had 
also  an  immediate  influence  on  his  movements. 
So  he  balanced  himself  cautiously  and  noise 
lessly  and  dropped  upon  the  man's  head  and 
shoulders,  bringing  him  down  to  the  flagged 
walk  with  him  and  under  him.  The  revolver 
went  off  once  in  the  struggle,  but  before  the 
burglar  could  know  how  or  from  where  his 
assailant  had  come,  Van  Bibber  was  standing 
up  over  him  and  had  driven  his  heel  down  on 
his  hand  and  kicked  the  pistol  out  of  his  fingers. 
Then  he  stepped  quickly  to  where  it  lay  and 
picked  it  up  and  said,  "Now,  if  you  try  to  get 
up  I'll  shoot  at  you."  He  felt  an  unwarranted 
and  ill-timedly  humorous  inclination  to  add, 
"and  I'll  probably  miss  you,"  but  subdued  it. 
The  burglar,  much  to  Van  Bibber's  astonish 
ment,  did  not  attempt  to  rise,  but  sat  up  with 
his  hands  locked  across  his  knees  and  said: 
"Shoot  ahead.  I'd  a  damned  sight  rather  you 
would." 

His  teeth  were  set  and  his  face  desperate  and 
bitter,  and  hopeless  to  a  degree  of  utter  hope 
lessness  that  Van  Bibber  had  never  imagined. 

"Go  ahead,"  reiterated  the  man,  doggedly, 
"I  won't  move.  Shoot  me." 

It  was  a  most  unpleasant  situation.  Van 
Bibber  felt  the  pistol  loosening  in  his  hand, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  a  strong  inclination  to 

124 


VAN  BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 

lay  it  down  and  ask  the  burglar  to  tell  him  all 
about  it. 

"You  haven't  got  much  heart,"  said  Van 
Bibber,  finally.  ''  You're  a  pretty  poor  sort  of 
a  burglar,  I  should  say." 

"What's  the  use?"  said  the  man,  fiercely. 
"I  won't  go  back — I  won't  go  back  there  alive. 
I've  served  my  time  forever  in  that  hole.  If  I 
have  to  go  back  again — s'help  me  if  I  don't  do 
for  a  keeper  and  die  for  it.  But  I  won't  serve 
there  no  more." 

"Go  back  where?"  asked  Van  Bibber,  gently, 
and  greatly  interested;  "to  prison?" 

"To  prison,  yes!"  cried  the  man,  hoarsely: 
"to  a  grave.  That's  where.  Look  at  my 
face,"  he  said,  "and  look  at  my  hair.  That 
ought  to  tell  you  where  I've  been.  With  all 
the  color  gone  out  of  my  skin,  and  all  the  life 
out  of  my  legs.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me. 
I  couldn't  hurt  you  if  I  wanted  to.  I'm  a 
skeleton  and  a  baby,  I  am.  I  couldn't  kill  a 
cat.  And  now  you're  going  to  send  me  back 
again  for  another  lifetime.  For  twenty  years, 
this  time,  into  that  cold,  forsaken  hole,  and 
after  I  done  my  time  so  well  and  worked  so 
hard."  Van  Bibber  shifted  the  pistol  from  one 
hand  to  the  other  and  eyed  his-  prisoner  doubt- 
fully. 

"How  long  have  you  been  out?"  he  asked, 
125 


VAN  BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 

seating  himself  on  the  steps  of  the  kitchen  and 
holding  the  revolver  between  his  knees.  The 
sun  was  driving  the  morning  mist  away,  and 
he  had  forgotten  the  cold. 

"I  got  out  yesterday,"  said  the  man. 

Van  Bibber  glanced  at  the  bags  and  lifted 
the  revolver.  ''You  didn't  waste  much  time," 
he  said. 

"No,"  answered  the  man,  sullenly,  "no,  I 
didn't.  I  knew  this  place  and  I  wanted  money 
to  get  West  to  my  folks,  and  the  Society  said 
I'd  have  to  wait  until  I  earned  it,  and  I  couldn't 
wait.  I  haven't  seen  my  wife  for  seven  years, 
nor  my  daughter.  Seven  years,  young  man; 
think  of  that — seven  years.  Do  you  know  how 
long  that  is?  Seven  years  without  seeing  your 
wife  or  your  child !  And  they're  straight  peo 
ple,  they  are,"  he  added,  hastily.  "My  wife 
moved  West  after  I  was  put  away  and  took 
another  name,  and  my  girl  never  knew  nothing 
about  me.  She  thinks  I'm  away  at  sea.  I  was 
to  join  'em.  That  was  the  plan.  I  was  to  join 
|  'em,  and  I  thought  I  could  lift  enough  here  to 
get  the  fare,  and  now,"  he  added,  dropping  his 
face  in  his  hands,  "I've  got  to  go  back.  And 
I  had  meant  to  live  straight  after  I  got  West — 
God  help  me,  but  I  did !  Not  that  it  makes 
much  difference  now.  An'  I  don't  care  whether 
you  believe  it  or  not  neither,"  he  added,  fiercely. 

126 


VAN   BIBBER'S   BURGLAR 

"I  didn't  say  whether  I  believed  it  or  not," 
answered  Van  Bibber,  with  grave  consideration. 

He  eyed  the  man  for  a  brief  space  without 
speaking,  and  the  burglar  looked  back  at  him, 
doggedly  and  defiantly,  and  with  not  the  faint 
est  suggestion  of  hope  in  his  eyes,  or  of  appeal 
for  mercy.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of  this 
fact,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  wife  and  child  that 
moved  Van  Bibber,  but  whatever  his  motives 
were,  he  acted  on  them  promptly.  "I  suppose, 
though,"  he  said,  as  though  speaking  to  him 
self,  "that  I  ought  to  give  you  up." 

"I'll  never  go  back  alive,"  said  the  burglar, 
quietly. 

"Well,  that's  bad,  too,"  said  Van  Bibber. 
"Of  course  I  don't  know  whether  you're  lying 
or  not,  and  as  to  your  meaning  to  live  honestly, 
I  very  much  doubt  it;  but  I'll  give  you  a  ticket 
to  wherever  your  wife  is,  and  I'll  see  you  on  the 
train.  And  you  can  get  off  at  the  next  station 
and  rob  my  house  to-morrow  night,  if  you  feel 
that  way  about  it.  Throw  those  bags  inside 
that  door  where  the  servant  will  see  them  be 
fore  the  milkman  does,  and  walk  on  out  ahead 
of  me,  and  keep  your  hands  in  your  pockets, 
and  don't  try  to  run.  I  have  your  pistol,  you 
know." 

The  man  placed  the  bags  inside  the  kitchen 
door;  and,  with  a  doubtful  look  at  his  custodian, 

127 


VAN   BIBBER'S   BURGLAR 

stepped  out  into  the  street,  and  walked,  as  he 
was  directed  to  do,  toward  the  Grand  Central 
station.  Van  Bibber  kept  just  behind  him, 
and  kept  turning  the  question  over  in  his  mind 
as  to  what  he  ought  to  do.  He  felt  very  guilty 
as  he  passed  each  policeman,  but  he  recovered 
himself  when  he  thought  of  the  wife  and  child 
who  lived  in  the  West,  and  who  were  "  straight." 

"Where  to?"  asked  Van  Bibber,  as  he  stood 
at  the  ticket-office  window.  "Helena,  Mon 
tana,"  answered  the  man  with,  for  the  first 
time,  a  look  of  relief.  Van  Bibber  bought  the 
ticket  and  handed  it  to  the  burglar.  "I  sup 
pose  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  you  can  sell  that 
at  a  place  down- town  for  half  the  money." 
"Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  the  burglar.  There 
was  a  half-hour  before  the  train  left,  and  Van 
Bibber  took  his  charge  into  the  restaurant  and 
watched  him  eat  everything  placed  before  him, 
with  his  eyes  glancing  all  the  while  to  the  right 
or  left.  Then  Van  Bibber  gave  him  some 
money  and  told  him  to  write  to  him,  and  shook 
hands  with  him.  The  man  nodded  eagerly  and 
pulled  off  his  hat  as  the  car  drew  out  of  the  sta* 
tion;  and  Van  Bibber  came  down- town  again 
with  the  shop  girls  and  clerks  going  to  jvork, 
still  wondering  if  he  had  done  the  right  thing. 

He  went  to  his  rooms  and  changed  his  clothes, 
took  a  cold  bath,  and  crossed  over  to  Delmon- 

128 


VAN  BIBBER'S  BURGLAR 

!co's  for  his  breakfast,  and,  while  the  waiter 
laid  the  cloth  in  the  cafe,  glanced  at  the  head 
ings  in  one  of  the  papers.  He  scanned  first 
with  polite  interest  the  account  of  the  dance  on 
the  night  previous  and  noticed  his  name  among 
;  those  present.  With  greater  interest  he  read 
of  the  fight  between  "Dutchy"  Mack  and  the 
"Black  Diamond,"  and  then  he  read  carefully 
how  "Abe"  Hubbard,  alias  " Jimmie  the  Gent," 
a  burglar,  had  broken  jail  in  New  Jersey,  and 
had  been  traced  to  New  York.  There  was  a 
description  of  the  man,  and  Van  Bibber  breathed 
quickly  as  he  read  it.  "The  detectives  have  a 
clew  of  his  whereabouts,"  the  account  said;  "if 
he  is  still  in  the  city  they  are  confident  of  re 
capturing  him.  But  they  fear  that  the  same 
friends  who  helped  him  to  break  jail  will  prob 
ably  assist  him  from  the  country  or  to  get  out 
West." 

"They  may  do  that,"  murmured  Van  Bibber 
to  himself,  with  a  smile  of  grim  contentment; 
"they  probably  will." 

Then  he  said  to  the  waiter,  "Oh,  I  don't 
know.  Some  bacon  and  eggs  and  green  things 
and  coffee." 


129 


VAN  BIBBER  AS  BEST  MAN 

YOUNG  Van  Bibber  came  up  to  town  in 
June  from  Newport  to  see  his  lawyer  about  the 
preparation  of  some  papers  that  needed  his 
signature.  He  found  the  city  very  hot  and 
close,  and  as  dreary  and  as  empty  as  a  house 
that  has  been  shut  up  for  some  time  while  its 
usual  occupants  are  away  in  the  country. 

As  he  had  to  wait  over  for  an  afternoon  train, 
and  as  he  was  down-town,  he  decided  to  lunch 
at  a  French  restaurant  near  Washington  Square, 
where  some  one  had  told  him  you  could  get 
particular  things  particularly  well  cooked.  The 
tables  were  set  on  a  terrace  with  plants  and 
flowers  about  them,  and  covered  with  a  tri- 
colored  awning.  There  were  no  jangling  horse- 
,  car  bells  nor  dust  to  disturb  him,  and  almost 
all  the  other  tables  were  unoccupied.  The 
waiters  leaned  against  these  tables  and  chatted 
in  a  French  argot;  and  a  cool  breeze  blew  through 
the  plants  and  billowed  the  awning,  so  that,  on 
the  whole,  Van  Bibber  was  glad  he  had  come. 

There  was,  beside  himself,  an  old  Frenchman 
scolding  over  his  late  breakfast;  two  young  art 
ists  with  Van  Dyke  beards,  who  ordered  the 

130 


VAN   BIBBER  AS  BEST  MAN 

most  remarkable  things  in  the  same  French 
argot  that  the  waiters  spoke;  and  a  young  lady 
and  a  young  gentleman  at  the  table  next  to 
his  own.  The  young  man's  back  was  toward 
him,  and  he  could  only  see  the  girl  when  the 
youth  moved  to  one  side.  She  was  very  young 
and  very  pretty,  and  she  seemed  in  a  most  ex 
cited  state  of  mind  from  the  tip  of  her  wide- 
brimmed,  pointed  French  hat  to  the  points  of 
her  patent-leather  ties.  She  was  strikingly 
well-bred  in  appearance,  and  Van  Bibber  won 
dered  why  she  should  be  dining  alone  with  so 
young  a  man. 

"It  wasn't  my  fault,"  he  heard  the  youth 
say  earnestly.  "How  could  I  know  he  would 
be  out  of  town?  and  anyway  it  really  doesn't 
matter.  Your  cousin  is  not  the  only  clergyman 
in  the  city." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  girl,  almost  tear 
fully,  "but  they're  not  my  cousins  and  he  is, 
and  that  would  have  made  it  so  much,  oh,  so 
very  much  different.  I'm  awfully  frightened!" 

"Runaway  couple,"  commented  Van  Bibber. 
"Most  interesting.  Read  about  'em  often; 
never  seen  'em.  Most  interesting." 

He  bent  his  head  over  an  entree,  but  he  could 
not  help  hearing  what  followed,  for  the  young 
runaways  were  indifferent  to  all  around  them, 
and  though  he  rattled  his  knife  and  fork  in  a 


VAN   BIBBER  AS   BEST  MAN 

most  vulgar  manner,   they  did  not  heed  him 
nor  lower  their  voices. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  said  the 
girl,  severely  but  not  unkindly.  "It  doesn't 
seem  to  me  that  you  are  exactly  rising  to  the 


occasion." 


"Well,  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  youth, 
easily.  "We're  safe  here  anyway.  Nobody  we 
know  ever  comes  here,  and  if  they  did  they  are 
out  of  town  now.  You  go  on  and  eat  some 
thing,  and  PII  get  a  directory  and  look  up  a 
lot  of  clergymen's  addresses,  and  then  we  can 
make  out  a  list  and  drive  around  in  a  cab  until 
we  find  one  who  has  not  gone  off  on  his  vaca 
tion.  We  ought  to  be  able  to  catch  the  Fall 
River  boat  back  at  five  this  afternoon;  then  we 
can  go  right  on  to  Boston  from  Fall  River  to 
morrow  morning  and  run  down  to  Narragansett 
during  the  day." 

"They'll  never  forgive  us,"  said  the  girl. 

"Oh,  well,  that's  all  right,"  exclaimed  the 
young  man,  cheerfully.  "Really,  you're  the 
most  uncomfortable  young  person  I  ever  ran 
away  with.  One  might  think  you  were  going 
to  a  funeral.  You  were  willing  enough  two 
days  ago,  and  now  you  don't  help  me  at  all. 
Are  you  sorry?"  he  asked,  and  then  added, 
"but  please  don't  say  so,  even  if  you  are." 

"No,  not  sorry,  exactly,"  said  the  girl;  "but, 
132 


VAN  BIBBER  AS   BEST  MAN 

indeed,  Ted,  it  is  going  to  make  so  much  talk. 
If  we  only  had  a  girl  with  us,  or  if  you  had  a 
best  man,  or  if  we  had  witnesses,  as  they  do  in 
England,  and  a  parish  registry,  or  something 
of  that  sort;  or  if  Cousin  Harold  had  only  been 
at  home  to  do  the  marrying." 

The  young  gentleman  called  Ted  did  not  look, 
judging  from  the  expression  of  his  shoulders,  as 
if  he  were  having  a  very  good  time. 

He  picked  at  the  food  on  his  plate  gloomily, 
and  the  girl  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  then 
put  it  resolutely  back  again  and  smiled  at  him. 
The  youth  called  the  waiter  and  told  him  to 
bring  a  directory,  and  as  he  turned  to  give  the 
order  Van  Bibber  recognized  him  and  he  recog 
nized  Van  Bibber.  Van  Bibber  knew  him  for 
a  very  nice  boy,  of  a  very  good  Boston  family 
named  Standish,  and  the  younger  of  two  sons. 
It  was  the  elder  who  was  Van  Bibber's  particu 
lar  friend.  The  girl  saw  nothing  of  this  mutual 
recognition,  for  she  was  looking  with  startled 
eyes  at  a  hansom  that  had  dashed  up  the  side 
street  and  was  turning  the  corner. 

"Ted,  O  Ted!"  she  gasped.  "It's  your 
brother.  There !  In  that  hansom.  I  saw  him 
perfectly  plainly.  Oh,  how  did  he  find  us? 
What  shall  we  do?" 

Ted  grew  very  red  and  then  very  white. 

"Standish,"   said  Van   Bibber,   jumping   up 

133 


VAN  BIBBER  AS  BEST  MAN 

and  reaching  for  his  hat,  "pay  this  chap  for 
these  things,  will  you,  and  I'll  get  rid  of  your 
brother." 

Van  Bibber  descended  the  steps  lighting  a 
cigar  as  the  elder  Standish  came  up  them  on  a 
jump. 

"Hello,  Standish!"  shouted  the  New  Yorker. 
"Wait  a  minute;  where  are  you  going?  Why, 
it  seems  to  rain  Standishes  to-day !  First  see 
your  brother;  then  I  see  you.  What's  on?" 

"You've  seen  him?"  cried  the  Boston  man, 
eagerly.  ''Yes,  and  where  is  he?  Was  she 
with  him?  Are  they  married?  Am  I  in  time?" 

Van  Bibber  answered  these  different  questions 
to  the  effect  that  he  had  seen  young  Standish 
and  Mrs.  Standish  not  half  an  hour  before, 
and  that  they  were  just  then  taking  a  cab  for 
Jersey  City,  whence  they  were  to  depart  for 
Chicago. 

"The  driver  who  brought  them  here,  and 
who  told  me  where  they  were,  said  they  could 
not  have  left  this  place  by  the  time  I  would 
reach  it,"  said  the  elder  brother,  doubtfully. 

"That's  so,"  said  the  driver  of  the  cab,  who 
had  listened  curiously.  "I  brought  'em  here 
not  more'n  half  an  hour  ago.  Just  had  time  to 
get  back  to  the  depot.  They  can't  have  gone 
long." 

"Yes,    but   they    have,"    said   Van    Bibber. 

134 


VAN  BIBBER  AS  BEST  MAN 

"However,  if  you  get  over  to  Jersey  City  in 
time  for  the  2. 30,  you  can  reach  Chicago  almost 
as  soon  as  they  do.  They  are  going  to  the 
Palmer  House,  they  said." 

'Thank  you,  old  fellow,"  shouted  Standish, 
jumping  back  into  his  hansom.  "It's  a  terrible 
business.  Pair  of  young  fools.  Nobody  ob 
jected  to  the  marriage,  only  too  young,  you 
know.  Ever  so  much  obliged." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Van  Bibber,  politely. 

"Now,  then,"  said  that  young  man,  as  he  .ap 
proached  the  frightened  couple  trembling  on  the 
terrace,  "  I've  sent  your  brother  off  to  Chicago. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  selected  Chicago  as  a 
place  where  one  would  go  on  a  honeymoon.  But 
I'm  not  used  to  lying,  and  I'm  not  very  good  at 
it.  Now,  if  you  will  introduce  me,  I'll  see  what 
can  be  done  toward  getting  you  two  babes  out 
of  the  woods." 

Standish  said,  "Miss  Cambridge,  this  is  Mr. 
Cortlandt  Van  Bibber,  of  whom  you  have  heard 
my  brother  speak,"  and  Miss  Cambridge  said 
she  was  very  glad  to  meet  Mr.  Van  Bibber  even 
under  such  peculiarly  trying  circumstances. 

"Now  what  you  two  want  to  do,"  said  Van 
Bibber,  addressing  them  as  though  they  were 
just  about  fifteen  years  old  and  he  were  at 
least  forty,  "is  to  give  this  thing  all  the  pub 
licity  you  can." 

135 


VAN  BIBBER  AS  BEST  MAN 

"What?"  chorussed  the  two  runaways,  in 
violent  protest. 

"Certainly,"  said  Van  Bibber.  "You  were 
about  to  make  a  fatal  mistake.  You  were  about 
to  go  to  some  unknown  clergyman  of  an  un 
known  parish,  who  would  have  married  you  in 
a  back  room,  without  a  certificate  or  a  witness, 
just  like  any  eloping  farmer's  daughter  and 
lightning-rod  agent.  Now  it's  different  with 
you  two.  Why  you  were  not  married  respect 
ably  in  church  I  don't  know,  and  I  do  not 
intend  to  ask,  but  a  kind  Providence  has  sent 
me  to  you  to  see  that  there  is  no  talk  nor  scan 
dal,  which  is  such  bad  form,  and  which  would 
have  got  your  names  into  all  the  papers.  I  am 
going  to  arrange  this  wedding  properly,  and 
you  will  kindly  remain  here  until  I  send  a  car 
riage  for  you.  Now  just  rely  on  me  entirely 
and  eat  your  luncheon  in  peace.  It's  all  going 
to  come  out  right — and  allow  me  to  recommend 
the  salad,  which  is  especially  good." 

Van  Bibber  first  drove  madly  to  the  Little 
Church  Around  the  Corner,  where  he  told  the 
kind  old  rector  all  about  it,  and  arranged  to 
have  the  church  open  and  the  assistant  organist 
in  her  place,  and  a  district-messenger  boy  to 
blow  the  bellows,  punctually  at  three  o'clock. 
"And  now,"  he  soliloquized,  "I  must  get  some 
names.  It  doesn't  matter  much  whether  they 

136 


VAN  BIBBER  AS  BEST  MAN 

happen  to  know  the  high  contracting  parties  or 
not,  but  they  must  be  names  that  everybody 
knows.  Whoever  is  in  town  will  be  lunching 
at  Delmonico's,  and  the  men  will  be  at  the 
clubs."  So  he  first  went  to  the  big  restaurant, 
where,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  he  found 
Mrs.  "Regy"  Van  Arnt  and  Mrs.  "Jack"  Pea- 
body,  and  the  Misses  Brookline,  who  had  run 
up  the  Sound  for  the  day  on  the  yacht  Minerva 
of  the  Boston  Yacht  Club,  and  he  told  them 
how  things  were  and  swore  them  to  secrecy,  and 
told  them  to  bring  what  men  they  could  pick  up. 

At  the  club  he  pressed  four  men  into  service 
who  knew  everybody  and  whom  everybody 
knew,  and  when  they  protested  that  they  had 
not  been  properly  invited  and  that  they  only 
knew  the  bride  and  groom  by  sight,  he  told 
them  that  made  no  difference,  as  it  was  only 
their  names  he  wanted.  Then  he  sent  a  mes 
senger  boy  to  get  the  biggest  suite  of  rooms  on 
the  Fall  River  boat,  and  another  one  for  flow 
ers,  and  then  he  put  Mrs.  "Regy"  Van  Arnt 
into  a  cab  and  sent  her  after  the  bride,  and,  as 
best  man,  he  got  into  another  cab  and  carried 
off  the  groom. 

"I  have  acted  either  as  best  man  or  usher 
forty-two  times  now,"  said  Van  Bibber,  as  they 
drove  to  the  church,  "and  this  is  the  first  time 
I  ever  appeared  in  either  capacity  in  Russia- 

137 


VAN  BIBBER  AS  BEST  MAN 

leather  shoes  and  a  blue  serge  yachting  suit. 
But  then,"  he  added,  contentedly,  "you  ought 
to  see  the  other  fellows.  One  of  them  is  in  a 
striped  flannel." 

Mrs.  "Regy"  and  Miss  Cambridge  wept  a 
great  deal  on  the  way  up-town,  but  the  bride 
was  smiling  and  happy  when  she  walked  up  the 
aisle  to  meet  her  prospective  husband,  who 
looked  exceedingly  conscious  before  the  eyes  of 
the  men,  all  of  whom  he  knew  by  sight  or  by 
name,  and  not  one  of  whom  he  had  ever  met 
before.  But  they  all  shook  hands  after  it  was 
over,  and  the  assistant  organist  played  the 
Wedding  March,  and  one  of  the  club  men  in 
sisted  in  pulling  a  cheerful  and  jerky  peal  on 
the  church  bell  in  the  absence  of  the  janitor, 
and  then  Van  Bibber  hurled  an  old  shoe  and  a 
handful  of  rice — which  he  had  thoughtfully  col 
lected  from  the  chef  at  the  club — after  them  as 
they  drove  off  to  the  boat. 

"Now,"  said  Van  Bibber,  with  a  proud  sigh 
of  relief  and  satisfaction,  "I  will  send  that  to 
the  papers,  and  when  it  is  printed  to-morrow  it 
will  read  like  one  of  the  most  orthodox  and  one 
of  the  smartest  weddings  of  the  season.  And 
yet  I  can't  help  thinking " 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  "Regy,"  as  he  paused 
doubtfully. 

"Well,  I  can't  help  thinking,"  continued  Van 

138 


VAN   BIBBER  AS   BEST  MAN 

Bibber,  "of  Standish's  older  brother  racing 
around  Chicago  with  the  thermometer  at  102 
in  the  shade.  I  wish  I  had  only  sent  him  to 
Jersey  City.  It  just  shows,"  he  added,  mourn 
fully,  "that  when  a  man  is  not  practised  in 
lying,  he  should  leave  it  alone." 


139 


AN  ASSISTED  EMIGRANT 

GUIDO  stood  on  the  curb-stone  in  Fourteenth 
Street,  between  Fifth  Avenue  and  Sixth  Avenue, 
with  a  row  of  plaster  figures  drawn  up  on  the 
sidewalk  in  front  of  him.  It  was  snowing,  and 
they  looked  cold  in  consequence,  especially  the 
Night  and  Morning.  A  line  of  men  and  boys 
stretched  on  either  side  of  Guido  all  along  the 
curb-stone,  with  toys  and  dolls,  and  guns  that 
shot  corks  into  the  air  with  a  loud  report,  and 
glittering  dressings  for  the  Christmas-trees.  It 
was  the  day  before  Christmas.  The  man  who 
stood  next  in  line  to  Guido  had  hideous  black 
monkeys  that  danced  from  the  end  of  a  rubber 
string.  The  man  danced  up  and  down  too, 
very  much,  so  Guido  thought,  as  the  monkeys 
did,  and  stamped  his  feet  on  the  icy  pavement, 
and  shouted:  "Here  yer  are,  lady,  for  five  cents. 
Take  them  home  to  the  children."  There  were 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  ladies  and  little  girls 
crowding  by  all  of  the  time;  some  of  them  were 
a  little  cross  and  a  little  tired,  as  if  Christmas 
shopping  had  told  on  their  nerves,  but  the 
greater  number  were  happy-looking  and  warm, 
and  some  stopped  and  laughed  at  the  monkeys 

140 


AN  ASSISTED   EMIGRANT 

dancing  on  the  rubber  strings,  and  at  the  man 
with  the  frost  on  his  mustache,  who  jumped 
too,  and  cried,  "Only  five  cents,  lady — nice 
Christmas  presents  for  the  children." 

Sometimes  the  ladies  bought  the  monkeys, 
but  no  one  looked  at  the  cold  plaster  figures  of 
St.  Joseph,  and  Diana,  and  Night  and  Morning, 
nor  at  the  heads  of  Mars  and  Minerva — not 
even  at  the  figure  of  the  Virgin,  with  her  two 
hands  held  out,  which  Guido  pressed  in  his  arms 
against  his  breast. 

Guido  had  been  in  New  York  city  just  one 
month.  He  was  very  young — so  young  that  he 
had  never  done  anything  at  home  but  sit  on 
the  wharfs  and  watch  the  ships  come  in  and 
out  of  the  great  harbor  of  Genoa.  He  never 
had  wished  to  depart  with  these  ships  when 
they  sailed  away,  nor  wondered  greatly  as  to 
where  they  went.  He  was  content  with  the 
wharfs  and  with  the  narrow  streets  near  by, 
and  to  look  up  from  the  bulkheads  at  the  sailors 
working  in  the  rigging,  and  the  'longshoremen 
rolling  the  casks  on  board,  or  lowering  great 
square  boxes  into  the  holds. 

He  would  have  liked,  could  he  have  had  his 
way,  to  live  so  for  the  rest  of  his  life;  but  they 
would  not  let  him  have  his  way,  and  coaxed 
him  on  a  ship  to  go  to  the  New  World  to  meet 
his  uncle.  He  was  not  a  real  uncle,  but  only 

141 


AN  ASSISTED   EMIGRANT 

a  make-believe  one,  to  satisfy  those  who  ob 
jected  to  assisted  immigrants,  and  who  wished 
to  be  assured  against  having  to  support  Guido, 
and  others  like  him.  But  they  were  not  half 
so  anxious  to  keep  Guido  at  home  as  he  him 
self  was  to  stay  there. 

The  new  uncle  met  him  at  Ellis  Island,  and 
embraced  him  affectionately,  and  put  him  in 
an  express  wagon,  and  drove  him  with  a  great 
many  more  of  his  countrymen  to  where  Mul 
berry  Street  makes  a  bend  and  joins  Hester. 
And  in  the  Bend  Guido  found  thousands  of  his 
fellows  sleeping  twenty  in  a  room  and  over 
crowded  into  the  street;  some  who  had  but  just 
arrived,  and  others  who  had  already  learned  to 
swear  in  English,  and  had  their  street-cleaning 
badges  and  their  pedler's  licenses,  to  show  that 
they  had  not  been  overlooked  by  the  kindly 
society  of  Tammany,  which  sees  that  no  free 
and  independent  voter  shall  go  unrewarded. 

New  York  affected  Guido  like  a  bad  dream. 
It  was  cold  and  muddy,  and  the  snow  when  it 
fell  turned  to  mud  so  quickly  that  Guido  be 
lieved  they  were  one  and  the  same.  He  did 
not  dare  to  think  of  the  place  he  knew  as  home. 
And  the  sight  of  the  colored  advertisements  of 
the  steamship  lines  that  hung  in  the  windows  of 
the  Italian  bankers  hurt  him  as  the  sound  of 
traffic  on  the  street  cuts  to  the  heart  of  a  pris- 

142 


AN  ASSISTED   EMIGRANT 

oner  in  the  Tombs.  Many  of  his  countrymen 
bade  good-by  to  Mulberry  Street  and  sailed 
away;  but  they  had  grown  rich  through  obeying 
the  padrones,  and  working  night  and  morning 
sweeping  the  Avenue  up-town,  and  by  living  on 
the  refuse  from  the  scows  at  Canal  Street. 
Guido  never  hoped  to  grow  rich,  and  no  one 
stopped  to  buy  his  uncle's  wares. 

The  electric  lights  came  out,  and  still  the 
crowd  passed  and  thronged  before  him,  and  the 
snow  fell  and  left  no  mark  on  the  white  figures. 
Guido  was  growing  cold,  and  the  bustle  of  the 
hurrying  hundreds  which  had  entertained  him 
earlier  in  the  day  had  ceased  to  interest  him, 
and  his  amusement  had  given  place  to  the  fear 
that  no  one  of  them  would  ever  stop,  and  that 
he  would  return  to  his  uncle  empty-handed. 
He  was  hungry  now,  as  well  as  cold,  and  though 
there  was  not  much  rich  food  in  the  Bend  at 
any  time,  to-day  he  had  had  nothing  of  any 
quality  to  eat  since  early  morning.  The  man 
with  the  monkeys  turned  his  head  from  time  to 
time,  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  language  that  he 
could  not  understand;  although  he  saw  that  it 
was  something  amusing  and  well  meant  that 
the  man  said,  and  so  smiled  back  and  nodded. 
He  felt  it  to  be  quite  a  loss  when  the  man  moved 
away. 

Guido  thought  very  slowly,  but  he  at  last 
143 


AN  ASSISTED   EMIGRANT 

began  to  feel  a  certain  contempt  for  the  stiff 
statues  and  busts  which  no  one  wanted,  and 
buttoned  the  figure  of  the  one  of  the  woman 
with  her  arms  held  out  inside  of  his  jacket,  and 
tucked  his  scarf  in  around  it,  so  that  it  might 
not  be  broken,  and  also  that  it  might  not  bear 
the  ignominy  with  the  others  of  being  over 
looked.  Guido  was  a  gentle,  slow-thinking  boy, 
and  could  not  have  told  you  why  he  did  this, 
but  he  knew  that  this  figure  was  of  different 
clay  from  the  others.  He  had  seen  it  placed 
high  in  the  cathedrals  at  home,  and  he  had 
been  told  that  if  you  ask  certain  things  of  it  it 
will  listen  to  you. 

The  women  and  children  began  to  disappear 
from  the  crowd,  and  the  necessity  of  selling 
some  of  his  wares  impressed  itself  more  urgently 
upon  him  as  the  night  grew  darker  and  possible 
customers  fewer.  He  decided  that  he  had  taken 
up  a  bad  position,  and  that  instead  of  waiting 
for  customers  to  come  to  him,  he  ought  to  go 
seek  for  them.  With  this  purpose  in  his  mind 
he  gathered  the  figures  together  upon  his  tray, 
and,  resting  it  upon  his  shoulder,  moved  further 
along  the  street,  to  Broadway,  where  the  crowd 
was  greater  and  the  shops  more  brilliantly 
lighted.  He  had  good  cause  to  be  watchful,  for 
the  sidewalks  were  slippery  with  ice,  and  the 
people  rushed  and  hurried  and  brushed  past 

144 


AN  ASSISTED   EMIGRANT 

him  without  noticing  the  burden  he  carried  on 
one  shoulder.  He  wished  now  that  he  knew 
some  words  of  this  new  language,  that  he  might 
call  his  wares  and  challenge  the  notice  of  the 
passers-by,  as  did  the  other  men  who  shouted 
so  continually  and  vehemently  at  the  hurrying 
crowds.  He  did  not  know  what  might  happen 
if  he  failed  to  sell  one  of  his  statues;  it  was  a 
possibility  so  awful  that  he  did  not  dare  con 
ceive  of  its  punishment.  But  he  could  do  noth 
ing,  and  so  stood  silent,  dumbly  presenting  his 
tray  to  the  people  near  him. 

His  wanderings  brought  him  to  the  corner  of 
a  street,  and  he  started  to  cross  it,  in  the  hope 
of  better  fortune  in  untried  territory.  There 
was  no  need  of  his  hurrying  to  do  this,  although 
a  car  was  coming  toward  him,  so  he  stepped 
carefully  but  surely.  But  as  he  reached  the 
middle  of  the  track  a  man  came  toward  him 
from  the  opposite  pavement;  they  met  and 
hesitated,  and  then  both  jumped  to  the  same 
side,  and  the  man's  shoulder  struck  the  tray 
and  threw  the  white  figures  flying  to  the  track, 
where  the  horses  tramped  over  them  on  their 
way.  Guido  fell  backward,  frightened  and 
shaken,  and  the  car  stopped,  and  the  driver  and 
the  conductor  leaned  out  anxiously  from  each 
end. 

There  seemed  to  be  hundreds  of  people  all 
145 


AN  ASSISTED  EMIGRANT 

around  Guido,  and  some  of  them  picked  him  up 
and  asked  him  questions  in  a  very  loud  voice,  as 
though  that  would  make  the  language  they 
spoke  more  intelligible.  Two  men  took  him  by 
each  arm  and  talked  with  him  in  earnest  tones, 
and  punctuated  their  questions  by  shaking  him 
gently.  He  could  not  answer  them,  but  only 
sobbed,  and  beat  his  hands  softly  together,  and 
looked  about  him  for  a  chance  to  escape.  The 
conductor  of  the  car  jerked  the  strap  violently, 
and  the  car  went  on  its  way.  Guido  watched 
the  conductor,  as  he  stood  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  looking  back  at  him.  Guido  had  a 
confused  idea  that  the  people  on  the  car  might 
pay  him  for  the  plaster  figures  which  had  been 
scattered  in  the  slush  and  snow,  so  that  the 
heads  and  arms  and  legs  lay  on  every  side  or 
were  ground  into  heaps  of  white  powder.  But 
when  the  car  disappeared  into  the  night  he 
gave  up  this  hope,  and  pulling  himself  free 
from  his  captor,  slipped  through  the  crowd  and 
ran  off  into  a  side  street.  A  man  who  had  seen 
the  accident  had  been  trying  to  take  up  a  col 
lection  in  the  crowd,  which  had  grown  less  sym 
pathetic  and  less  numerous  in  consequence,  and 
had  gathered  more  than  the  plaster  casts  were 
worth;  but  Guido  did  not  know  this,  and  when 
they  came  to  look  for  him  he  was  gone,  and  the 
bareheaded  gentleman,  with  his  hat  full  of  cop- 

146 


AN  ASSISTED   EMIGRANT 

pers  and  dimes,  was  left  in  much  embarrass 
ment. 

Guido  walked  to  Washington  Square,  and  sat 
down  on  a  bench  to  rest,  and  then  curled  over 
quickly,  and,  stretching  himself  out  at  full 
length,  wept  bitterly.  When  any  one  passed  he 
held  his  breath  and  pretended  to  be  asleep.  He 
did  not  know  what  he  was  to  do  or  where  he 
was  to  go.  Such  a  calamity  as  this  had  never 
entered  into  his  calculations  of  the  evils  which 
might  overtake  him,  and  it  overwhelmed  him 
utterly.  A  policeman  touched  him  with  his 
night-stick,  and  spoke  to  him  kindly  enough, 
but  the  boy  only  backed  away  from  the  man 
until  he  was  out  of  his  reach,  and  then  ran  on 
again,  slipping  and  stumbling  on  the  ice  and 
snow.  He  ran  to  Christopher  Street,  through 
Greenwich  Village,  and  on  to  the  wharfs. 

It  was  quite  late,  and  he  had  recovered  from 
his  hunger,  and  only  felt  a  sick  tired  ache  at  his 
heart.  His  feet  were  heavy  and  numb,  and  he 
was  very  sleepy.  People  passed  him  continu 
ally,  and  doors  opened  into  churches  and  into 
noisy,  glaring  saloons  and  crowded  shops,  but 
it  did  not  seem  possible  to  him  that  there  could 
be  any  relief  from  any  source  for  the  sorrow 
that  had  befallen  him.  It  seemed  too  awful, 
and  as  impossible  to  mend  as  it  would  be  to 
bring  the  crushed  plaster  into  shape  again.  He 

147 


AN  ASSISTED  EMIGRANT 

considered  dully  that  his  uncle  would  miss  him 
and  wait  for  him,  and  that  his  anger  would  in 
crease  with  every  moment  of  his  delay.  He 
felt  that  he  could  never  return  to  his  uncle  again. 

Then  he  came  to  another  park,  opening  into 
a  square,  with  lighted  saloons  on  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  great  sheds,  with  ships  lying  beside 
them,  and  the  electric  lights  showing  their  spars 
and  masts  against  the  sky.  It  had  ceased  snow 
ing,  but  the  air  from  the  river  was  piercing  and 
cold,  and  swept  through  the  wires  overhead 
with  a  ceaseless  moaning.  The  numbness  had 
crept  from  his  feet  up  over  the  whole  extent  of 
his  little  body,  and  he  dropped  upon  a  flight  of 
steps  back  of  a  sailors'  boarding-house,  and 
shoved  his  hands  inside  of  his  jacket  for  possible 
warmth.  His  fingers  touched  the  figure  he  had 
hidden  there  and  closed  upon  it  lightly,  and 
then  his  head  dropped  back  against  the  wall, 
and  he  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep.  The  night 
passed  on  and  grew  colder,  and  the  wind  came 
across  the  ice-blocked  river  with  shriller,  sharper 
blasts,  but  Guido  did  not  hear  it. 

"Chuckey"  Martin,  who  blacked  boots  in 
front  of  the  corner  saloon  in  summer  and  swept 
out  the  barroom  in  winter,  came  out  through 
the  family  entrance  and  dumped  a  pan  of  hot 
ashes  into  the  snow-bank,  and  then  turned  into 
the  house  with  a  shiver.  He  saw  a  mass  of 

148 


AN  ASSISTED   EMIGRANT 

something  lying  curled  up  on  the  steps  of  the 
next  house,  and  remembered  it  after  he  had 
closed  the  door  of  the  family  entrance  behind 
him  and  shoved  the  pan  under  the  stove.  He 
decided  at  last  that  it  might  be  one  of  the  sa 
loon's  customers,  or  a  stray  sailor  with  loose 
change  in  his  pockets,  which  he  would  not  miss 
when  he  awoke.  So  he  went  out  again,  and 
picking  Guido  up,  brought  him  in  in  his  arms 
and  laid  him  out  on,  the  floor. 

There  were  over  thirty  men  in  the  place;  they 
had  been  celebrating  the  coming  of  Christmas; 
and  three  of  them  pushed  each  other  out  of  the 
way  in  their  eagerness  to  pour  very  bad  brandy 
between  Guide's  teeth.  "Chuckey"  Martin 
felt  a  sense  of  proprietorship  in  Guido,  by  the 
right  of  discovery,  and  resented  this,  pushing 
them  away,  and  protesting  that  the  thing  to  do 
was  to  rub  his  feet  with  snow. 

A  fat,  oily  chief  engineer  of  an  Italian  tramp 
steamer  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  Guido  and 
beat  the  boy's  hands,  and  with  unsteady  fingers 
tore  open  his  scarf  and  jacket,  and  as  he  did 
this  the  figure  of  the  plaster  Virgin  with  her 
hands  stretched  out  looked  up  at  him  from  its 
bed  on  Guide's  chest. 

Some  of  the  sailors  drew  their  hands  quickly 
across  their  breasts,  and  others  swore  in  some 
alarm,  and  the  barkeeper  drank  the  glass  of 

149 


AN  ASSISTED  EMIGRANT 

whiskey  he  had  brought  for  Guido  at  a  gulp, 
and  then  readjusted  his  apron  to  show  that 
nothing  had  disturbed  his  equanimity.  Guido 
sat  up,  with  his  head  against  the  chief  engineer's 
knees,  and  opened  his  eyes,  and  his  ears  were 
greeted  with  words  in  his  own  tongue.  They 
gave  him  hot  coffee  and  hot  soup  and  more 
brandy,  and  he  told  his  story  in  a  burst  of  words 
that  flowed  like  a  torrent  of  tears — how  he  had 
been  stolen  from  his  home  at  Genoa,  where  he 
used  to  watch  the  boats  from  the  stone  pier  in 
front  of  the  custom-house,  at  which  the  sailors 
nodded,  and  how  the  padrone,  who  was  not 
his  uncle,  finding  he  could  not  black  boots  nor 
sell  papers,  had  given  him  these  plaster  casts  to 
sell,  and  how  he  had  whipped  him  when  people 
would  not  buy  them,  and  how  at  last  he  had 
tripped  and  broken  them  all  except  this  one 
hidden  in  his  breast,  and  how  he  had  gone  to 
sleep,  and  he  asked  now  why  had  they  wakened 
him,  for  he  had  no  place  to  go. 

Guido  remembered  telling  them  this,  and 
following  them  by  their  gestures  as  they  retold 
it  to  the  others  in  a  strange  language,  and  then 
the  lights  began  to  spin,  and  the  faces  grew 
distant,  and  he  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  fat 
chief  engineer,  and  felt  his  arms  tightening 
around  him. 

A  cold  wind  woke  Guido,  and  the  sound  of 
150 


AN  ASSISTED   EMIGRANT 

something  throbbing  and  beating  like  a  great 
clock.  He  was  very  warm  and  tired  and  lazy, 
and  when  he  raised  his  head  he  touched  the 
ceiling  close  above  him,  and  when  he  opened 
his  eyes  he  found  himself  in  a  little  room  with 
a  square  table  covered  with  oilcloth  in  the  cen 
tre,  and  rows  of  beds  like  shelves  around  the 
walls.  The  room  rose  and  fell  as  the  streets 
did  when  he  had  had  nothing  to  eat,  and  he 
scrambled  out  of  the  warm  blankets  and  crawled 
fearfully  up  a  flight  of  narrow  stairs.  There 
was  water  on  either  side  of  him,  beyond  and 
behind  him — water  blue  and  white  and  dancing 
in  the  sun,  with  great  blocks  of  dirty  ice  tossing 
on  its  surface. 

And  behind  him  lay  the  odious  city  of  New 
York,  with  its  great  bridge  and  high  buildingSj 
and  before  him  the  open  sea.  The  chief  en 
gineer  crawled  up  from  the  engine-room  and 
came  toward  him,  rubbing  the  perspiration 
from  his  face  with  a  dirty  towel. 

"Good-morning,"  he  called  out.  "You  are 
feeling  pretty  well?" 

"Yes." 

"It  is  Christmas  day.  Do  you  know  where 
you  are  going?  You  are  going  to  Italy,  to 
Genoa.  It  is  over  there,"  he  said,  pointing 
with  his  finger.  "Go  back  to  your  bed  and 
keep  warm." 


AN  ASSISTED   EMIGRANT 

He  picked  Guido  up  in  his  arms,  and  ran 
with  him  down  the  companion-way,  and  tossed 
him  back  into  his  berth.  Then  he  pointed  to 
the  shelf  at  one  end  of  the  little  room,  above  the 
sheet-iron  stove.  The  plaster  figure  that  Guido 
had  wrapped  in  his  breast  had  been  put  there 
and  lashed  to  its  place. 

"That  will  bring  us  good  luck  and  a  quick 
voyage,"  said  the  chief  engineer. 

Guido  lay  quite  still  until  the  fat  engineer 
had  climbed  up  the  companion-way  again  and 
permitted  the  sunlight  to  once  more  enter  the 
cabin.  Then  he  crawled  out  of  his  berth  and 
dropped  on  his  knees,  and  raised  up  his  hands 
to  the  plaster  figure  which  no  one  would  buy. 


152 


MY  DISREPUTABLE  FRIEND, 
MR.  RAEGEN 

RAGS  RAEGEN  was  out  of  his  element.  The 
water  was  his  proper  element — the  water  of  the 
East  River  by  preference.  And  when  it  came 
to  "running  the  roofs,"  as  he  would  have  him 
self  expressed  it,  he  was  "  not  in  it." 

On  those  other  occasions  when  he  had  been 
followed  by  the  police,  he  had  raced  them 
toward  the  river  front  and  had  dived  boldly  in 
from  the  wharf,  leaving  them  staring  blankly 
and  in  some  alarm  as  to  his  safety.  Indeed, 
three  different  men  in  the  precinct,  who  did 
not  know  of  young  Raegen's  aquatic  prowess, 
had  returned  to  the  station-house  and  seriously 
reported  him  to  the  sergeant  as  lost,  and  re 
gretted  having  driven  a  citizen  into  the  river, 
where  he  had  been  unfortunately  drowned.  It 
was  even  told  how,  on  one  occasion,  when  hotly 
followed,  young  Raegen  had  dived  off  Wake- 
man's  Slip,  at  East  Thirty-third  Street,  and  had 
then  swum  back  under  water  to  the  landing- 
steps,  while  the  policeman  and  a  crowd  of 
stevedores  stood  watching  for  him  to  reappear 
where  he  had  sunk.  It  is  further  related  that 

153 


MR.   RAEGEN 

he  had  then,  in  a  spirit  of  recklessness,  and  in 
the  possibility  of  the  policeman's  failing  to 
recognize  him,  pushed  his  way  through  the 
crowd  from  the  rear  and  plunged  in  to  rescue 
the  supposedly  drowned  man.  And  that  after 
two  or  three  futile  attempts  to  find  his  own 
corpse,  he  had  climbed  up  on  the  dock  and 
told  the  officer  that  he  had  touched  the  body 
sticking  in  the  mud.  And,  as  a  result  of  this 
fiction,  the  river-police  dragged  the  river-bed 
around  Wakeman's  Slip  with  grappling  irons 
for  four  hours,  while  Rags  sat  on  the  wharf  and 
directed  their  movements. 

But  on  this  present  occasion  the  police  were 
standing  between  him  and  the  river,  and  so  cut 
off  his  escape  in  that  direction,  and  as  they  had 
seen  him  strike  McGonegal  and  had  seen  Mc- 
Gonegal  fall,  he  had  to  run  for  it  and  seek 
refuge  on  the  roofs.  What  made  it  worse  was 
that  he  was  not  in  his  own  hunting-grounds, 
but  in  McGonegaPs,  and  while  any  tenement 
on  Cherry  Street  would  have  given  him  shelter, 
either  for  love  of  him  or  fear  of  him,  these  of 
Thirty-third  Street  were  against  him  and  "all 
that  Cherry  Street  gang,"  while  "Pike"  Mc 
Gonegal  was  their  darling  and  their  hero.  And, 
if  Rags  had  known  it,  any  tenement  on  the 
block  was  better  than  Case's,  into  which  he 
first  turned,  for  Case's  was  empty  and  unten- 

154 


MR.  RAEGEN 

anted,  save  in  one  or  two  rooms,  and  the  oppor 
tunities  for  dodging  from  one  to  another  were 
in  consequence  very  few.  But  he  could  not 
know  this,  and  so  he  plunged  into  the  dark  hall 
way  and  sprang  up  the  first  four  flights  of  stairs, 
three  steps  at  a  jump,  with  one  arm  stretched 
out  in  front  of  him,  for  it  was  very  dark  and  the 
turns  were  short.  On  the  fourth  floor  he  fell 
headlong  over  a  bucket  with  a  broom  sticking 
in  it,  and  cursed  whoever  left  it  there.  There 
was  a  ladder  leading  from  the  sixth  floor  to  the 
roof,  and  he  ran  up  this  and  drew  it  after  him 
as  he  fell  forward  out  of  the  wooden  trap  that 
opened  on  the  flat  tin  roof  like  a  companion- 
way  of  a  ship.  The  chimneys  would  have  hid 
den  him,  but  there  was  a  policeman's  helmet 
coming  up  from  another  companion-way,  and 
he  saw  that  the  Italians  hanging  out  of  the  win 
dows  of  the  other  tenements  were  pointing  at 
him  and  showing  him  to  the  officer.  So  he 
hung  by  his  hands  and  dropped  back  again. 
It  was  not  much  of  a  fall,  but  it  jarred  him, 
and  the  race  he  had  already  run  had  nearly 
taken  his  breath  from  him.  For  Rags  did  not 
live  a  life  calculated  to  fit  young  men  for  sud 
den  trials  of  speed. 

He  stumbled  back  down  the  narrow  stairs, 
and,  with  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  bucket  he 
had  already  fallen  upon,  felt  his  way  cautiously 

155 


MR.   RAEGEN 

with  his  hands  and  with  one  foot  stuck  out  in 
front  of  him.  If  he  had  been  in  his  own  baili 
wick,  he  would  have  rather  enjoyed  the  tense 
excitement  of  the  chase  than  otherwise,  for 
there  he  was  at  home  and  knew  all  the  cross 
cuts  and  where  to  find  each  broken  paling  in 
the  roof-fences,  and  all  the  traps  in  the  roofs. 
But  here  he  was  running  in  a  maze,  and  what 
looked  like  a  safe  passage-way  might  throw 
him  head  on  into  the  outstretched  arms  of  the 
officers. 

And  while  he  felt  his  way  his  mind  was  ter 
ribly  acute  to  the  fact  that  as  yet  no  door  on 
any  of  the  landings  had  been  thrown  open  to 
him,  either  curiously  or  hospitably  as  offering  a 
place  of  refuge.  He  did  not  want  to  be  taken, 
but  in  spite  of  this  he  was  quite  cool,  and  so, 
when  he  heard  quick,  heavy  footsteps  beating 
up  the  stairs,  he  stopped  himself  suddenly  by 
placing  one  hand  on  the  side  of  the  wall  and 
the  other  on  the  banister  and  halted,  panting. 
He  could  distinguish  from  below  the  high  voices 
of  women  and  children  and  excited  men  in  the 
street,  and  as  the  steps  came  nearer  he  heard 
some  one  lowering  the  ladder  he  had  thrown 
upon  the  roof  to  the  sixth  floor  and  preparing 
to  descend.  "Ah!"  snarled  Raegen,  panting 
and  desperate,  "youse  think  you  have  me  now, 
sure,  don't  you?"  It  rather  frightened  him 

156 


MR.   RAEGEN 

to  find  the  house  so  silent,  for,  save  the  footsteps 
of  the  officers,  descending  and  ascending  upon 
him,  he  seemed  to  be  the  only  living  person  in 
all  the  dark,  silent  building. 

He  did  not  want  to  fight. 

He  was  under  heavy  bonds  already  to  keep 
the  peace,  and  this  last  had  surely  been  in  self- 
defense,  and  he  felt  he  could  prove  it.  What 
he  wanted  now  was  to  get  away,  to  get  back 
to  his  own  people  and  to  lie  hidden  in  his  own 
cellar  or  garret,  where  they  would  feed  and 
guard  him  until  the  trouble  was  over.  And 
still,  like  the  two  ends  of  a  vise,  the  representa 
tives  of  the  law  were  closing  in  upon  him.  He 
turned  the  knob  of  the  door  opening  to  the 
landing  on  which  he  stood,  and  tried  to  push  it 
in,  but  it  was  locked.  Then  he  stepped  quickly 
to  the  door  on  the  opposite  side  and  threw  his 
shoulder  against  it.  The  door  opened,  and  he 
stumbled  forward  sprawling.  The  room  in 
which  he  had  taken  refuge  was  almost  bare, 
and  very  dark;  but  in  a  little  room  leading  from 
it  he  saw  a  pile  of  tossed-up  bedding  on  the 
floor,  and  he  dived  at  this  as  though  it  was 
water,  and  crawled  far  under  it  until  he  reached 
the  wall  beyond,  squirming  on  his  face  and 
stomach,  and  flattening  out  his  arms  and  legs. 
Then  he  lay  motionless,  holding  back  his  breath, 
and  listening  to  the  beating  of  his  heart  and  to 

157 


MR.  RAEGEN 

the  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  The  footsteps 
stopped  on  the  landing  leading  to  the  outer 
room,  and  he  could  hear  the  murmur  of  voices 
as  the  two  men  questioned  one  another.  Then 
the  door  was  kicked  open,  and  there  was  a  long 
silence,  broken  sharply  by  the  click  of  a  revolver. 

"Maybe  he's  in  there,"  said  a  bass  voice. 
The  men  stamped  across  the  floor  leading  into 
the  dark  room  in  which  he  lay,  and  halted  at 
the  entrance.  They  did  not  stand  there  over  a 
moment  before  they  turned  and  moved  away 
again;  but  to  Raegen,  lying  with  blood-vessels 
choked,  and  with  his  hand  pressed  across  his 
mouth,  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  contem 
plating  and  enjoying  his  agony  for  over  an 
hour.  "I  was  in  this  place  not  more  than 
twelve  hours  ago,"  said  one  of  them  easily.  "  I 
come  in  to  take  a  couple  out  for  fighting.  They 
were  yelling  *  murder'  and  *  police,'  and  break 
ing  things;  but  they  went  quiet  enough.  The 
man  is  a  stevedore,  I  guess,  and  him  and  his 
wife  used  to  get  drunk  regular  and  carry  on 
up  here  every  night  or  so.  They  got  thirty  days 
on  the  Island." 

"Who's  taking  care  of  the  rooms?"  asked  the 
bass  voice.  The  first  voice  said  he  guessed  "no 
one  was,"  and  added:  "There  ain't  much  to 
take  care  of,  that  I  can  see."  " That's  so," 
assented  the  bass  voice.  *:WeII,"  he  went  on 


MR.   RAEGEN 

briskly,  "he's  not  here;  but  he's  in  the  building, 
sure,  for  he  put  back  when  he  seen  me  coming 
over  the  roof.  And  he  didn't  pass  me,  neither, 
I  know  that,  anyway,"  protested  the  bass  voice. 
Then  the  bass  voice  said  that  he  must  have 
slipped  into  the  flat  below,  and  added  some 
thing  that  Raegen  could  not  hear  distinctly, 
about  Schaffer  on  the  roof,  and  their  having 
him  safe  enough,  as  that  red-headed  cop  from 
the  Eighteenth  Precinct  was  watching  on  the 
street.  They  closed  the  door  behind  them,  and 
their  footsteps  clattered  down  the  stairs,  leav 
ing  the  big  house  silent  and  apparently  deserted.. 
Young  Raegen  raised  his  head,  and  let  his 
breath  escape  with  a  great  gasp  of  relief,  as 
when  he  had  been  a  long  time  under  water,  and 
cautiously  rubbed  the  perspiration  out  of  his 
eyes  and  from  his  forehead.  It  had  been  a 
cruelly  hot,  close  afternoon,  and  the  stifling 
burial  under  the  heavy  bedding,  and  the  excite 
ment,  had  left  him  feverishly  hot  and  trem 
bling.  It  was  already  growing  dark  outside, 
although  he  could  not  know  that  until  he  lifted 
the  quilts  an  inch  or  two  and  peered  up  at  the 
dirty  window-panes.  He  was  afraid  to  rise,  as 
yet,  and  flattened  himself  out  with  an  impatient 
sigh,  as  he  gathered  the  bedding  over  his  head 
again  and  held  back  his  breath  to  listen.  There 
may  have  been  a  minute  or  more  of  absolute 

159 


MR.  RAEGEN 

silence  in  which  he  lay  there,  and  then  his 
blood  froze  to  ice  in  his  veins,  his  breath  stopped, 
and  he  heard,  with  a  quick  gasp  of  terror,  the 
sound  of  something  crawling  toward  him  across 
the  floor  of  the  outer  room.  The  instinct  of 
self-defense  moved  him  first  to  leap  to  his  feet, 
and  to  face  and  fight  it,  and  then  followed  as 
quickly  a  foolish  sense  of  safety  in  his  hiding- 
place;  and  he  called  upon  his  greatest  strength, 
and,  by  his  mere  brute  will  alone,  forced  his 
forehead  down  to  the  bare  floor  and  lay  rigid, 
though  his  nerves  jerked  with  unknown,  un 
reasoning  fear.  And  still  he  heard  the  sound  of 
this  living  thing  coming  creeping  toward  him 
until  the  instinctive  terror  that  shook  him  over 
came  his  will,  and  he  threw  the  bed-clothes  from 
him  with  a  hoarse  cry,  and  sprang  up  trembling 
to  his  feet,  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  and 
with  his  arms  thrown  out  in  front  of  him  wildly* 
and  with  the  willingness  in  them  and  the  power 
in  them  to  do  murder. 

The  room  was  very  dark,  but  the  windows  of 
the  one  beyond  let  in  a  little  stream  of  light 
across  the  floor,  and  in  this  light  he  saw  mov 
ing  toward  him  on  its  hands  and  knees  a  little 
baby  who  smiled  and  nodded  at  him  with  a 
pleased  look  of  recognition  and  kindly  welcome. 

The  fear  upon  Raegen  had  been  so  strong  and 
the  reaction  was  so  great  that  he  dropped  to  a 

1 60 


He  sprang  up  trembling  to  his  feet. 


MR.  RAEGEN 

sitting  posture  on  the  heap  of  bedding  and 
laughed  long  and  weakly,  and  still  with  a  feel^ 
ing  in  his  heart  that  this  apparition  was  some 
thing  strangely  unreal  and  menacing. 

But  the  baby  seemed  well  pleased  with  his 
laughter,  and  stopped  to  throw  back  its  head 
and  smile  and  coo  and  laugh  gently  with  him, 
as  though  the  joke  was  a  very  good  one  which 
they  shared  in  common.  Then  it  struggled 
solemnly  to  its  feet  and  came  pattering  toward 
him  on  a  run,  with  both  bare  arms  held  out, 
and  with  a  look  of  such  confidence  in  him,  and 
welcome  in  its  face,  that  Raegen  stretched  out 
his  arms  and  closed  the  baby's  fingers  fearfully 
and  gently  in  his  own. 

He  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a  child.  There 
was  dirt  enough  on  its  hands  and  face,  and  its 
torn  dress  was  soiled  with  streaks  of  coal  and 
ashes.  The  dust  of  the  floor  had  rubbed  into 
its  bare  knees,  but  the  face  was  like  no  other 
face  that  Rags  had  ever  seen.  And  then  it 
looked  at  him  as  though  it  trusted  him,  and 
just  as  though  they  had  known  each  other  at 
some  time  long  before,  but  the  eyes  of  the  baby 
somehow  seemed  to  hurt  him  so  that  he  had 
to  turn  his  face  away,  and  when  he  looked 
again  it  was  with  a  strangely  new  feeling  of  dis 
satisfaction  with  himself  and  of  wishing  to  ask 
pardon.  They  were  wonderful  eyes,  black  and 

161 


MR.  RAEGEN 

rich,  and  with  a  deep  superiority  of  knowledge 
in  them,  a  knowledge  that  seemed  to  be  above 
the  knowledge  of  evil;  and  when  the  baby 
smiled  at  him,  the  eyes  smiled  too  with  con 
fidence  and  tenderness  in  them  that  in  some 
way  frightened  Rags  and  made  him  move 
uncomfortablyo  "Did  you  know  that  youse 
scared  me  so  that  I  was  going  to  kill  you?" 
whispered  Rags,  apologetically,  as  he  carefully 
held  the  baby  from  him  at  arm's  length.  "Did 
you?"  But  the  baby  only  smiled  at  this  and 
reached  out  its  hand  and  stroked  Rags's  cheek 
with  its  fingers.  There  was  something  so  won 
derfully  soft  and  sweet  in  this  that  Rags  drew 
the  baby  nearer  and  gave  a  quick,  strange  gasp 
of  pleasure  as  it  threw  its  arms  around  his  neck 
and  brought  the  face  up  close  to  his  chin  and 
hugged  him  tightly.  The  baby's  arms  were 
very  soft  and  plump,  and  its  cheek  and  tangled 
hair  were  warm  and  moist  with  perspiration, 
and  the  breath  that  fell  on  Raegen's  face  was 
sweeter  than  anything  he  had  ever  known.  He 
felt  wonderfully  and  for  some  reason  uncom 
fortably  happy,  but  the  silence  was  oppressive. 

"What's  your  name,  little  'un?"  said  Rags. 

The  baby  ran  its  arms  more  closely  around 
Raegen's  neck  and  did  not  speak,  unless  its  coo 
ing  in  Raegen's  ear  was  an  answer.  "What 
did  you  say  your  name  was?"  persisted  Raegen, 

162 


MR.   RAEGEN 

in  a  whisper.  The  baby  frowned  at  this  and 
stopped  cooing  long  enough  to  say:  "Marg'ret," 
mechanically  and  without  apparently  associat 
ing  the  name  with  herself  or  anything  else. 
"Margaret,  eh!"  said  Raegen,  with  grave  con 
sideration.  "It's  a  very  pretty  name,"  he 
added,  politely,  for  he  could  not  shake  off  the 
feeling  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  superior 
being.  "An*  what  did  you  say  your  dad's 
name  was?"  asked  Raegen,  awkwardly.  But 
this  wras  beyond  the  baby's  patience  or  knowl 
edge,  and  she  waived  the  question  aside  with 
both  arms  and  began  to  beat  a  tattoo  gently 
with  her  two  closed  fists  on  Raegen's  chin  and 
throat.  "  You're  mighty  strong  now,  ain't 
you?"  mocked  the  young  giant,  laughing. 
"Perhaps  you  don't  know,  Missie,"  he  added, 
gravely,  "that  your  dad  and  mar  are  doing 
time  on  the  Island,  and  you  won't  see  'em  again 
for  a  month."  No,  the  baby  did  not  know  this 
nor  care  apparently;  she  seemed  content  with 
Rags  and  with  his  company.  Sometimes  she 
drew  away  and  looked  at  him  long  and  dubi 
ously,  and  this  cut  Rags  to  the  heart,  and  he 
felt  guilty,  and  unreasonably  anxious  until  she 
smiled  reassuringly  again  and  ran  back  into  his 
arms,  nestling  her  face  against  his  and  stroking 
his  rough  chin  wonderingly  with  her  little  fin 
gers. 


MR.  RAEGEN 

Rags  forgot  the  lateness  of  the  night  and  the 
darkness  that  fell  upon  the  room  in  the  interest 
of  this  strange  entertainment,  which  was  so 
much  more  absorbing,  and  so  much  more  inno 
cent  than  any  other  he  had  ever  known.  He 
almost  forgot  the  fact  that  he  lay  in  hiding, 
that  he  was  surrounded  by  unfriendly  neigh 
bors,  and  that  at  any  moment  the  representa 
tives  of  local  justice  might  come  in  and  rudely 
lead  him  away.  For  this  reason  he  dared  not 
make  a  light,  but  he  moved  his  position  so  that 
the  glare  from  an  electric  lamp  on  the  street 
outside  might  fall  across  the  baby's  face,  as  it 
lay  alternately  dozing  and  awakening,  to  smile 
up  at  him  in  the  bend  of  his  arm.  Once  it 
reached  inside  the  collar  of  his  shirt  and  pulled 
out  the  scapular  that  hung  around  his  neck, 
and  looked  at  it  so  long,  and  with  such  appar 
ent  seriousness,  that  Rags  was  confirmed  in  his 
fear  that  this  kindly  visitor  was  something 
more  or  less  of  a  superhuman  agent,  and  his 
efforts  to  make  this  supposition  coincide  with 
the  fact  that  the  angel's  parents  were  on  Black- 
well's  Island,  proved  one  of  the  severest  strug 
gles  his  mind  had  ever  experienced.  He  had 
forgotten  to  feel  hungry,  and  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  acutely  so,  first  came  to  him  with 
the  thought  that  the  baby  must  obviously  be  in 
greatest  need  of  food  herself.  This  pained  him 

164 


MR.  RAEGEN 

greatly,  and  he  laid  his  burden  down  upon  the 
bedding,  and  after  slipping  off  his  shoes,  tiptoed 
his  way  across  the  room  on  a  foraging  expedi 
tion  after  something  she  could  eat.  There  was 
a  half  of  a  ham-bone,  and  a  half  loaf  of  hard 
bread  in  a  cupboard,  and  on  the  table  he  found 
a  bottle  quite  filled  with  wretched  whiskey. 
That  the  police  had  failed  to  see  the  baby  had 
not  appealed  to  him  in  any  way,  but  that  they 
should  have  allowed  this  last  find  to  remain 
unnoticed  pleased  him  intensely,  not  because  it 
now  fell  to  him,  but  because  they  had  been 
cheated  of  it.  It  really  struck  him  as  so  humor 
ous  that  he  stood  laughing  silently  for  several 
minutes,  slapping  his  thigh  with  every  outward 
exhibition  of  the  keenest  mirth.  But  when  he 
found  that  the  room  and  cupboard  were  bare 
of  anything  else  that  might  be  eaten  Tie  sobered 
suddenly.  It  was  very  hot,  and  though  the 
windows  were  open,  the  perspiration  stood  upon 
his  face,  and  the  foul  close  air  that  rose  from 
the  court  and  street  below  made  him  gasp  and 
pant  for  breath.  He  dipped  a  wash  rag  in  the 
water  from  the  spigot  in  the  hall,  and  filled  a 
cup  with  it  and  bathed  the  baby's  face  and 
wrists.  She  woke  and  sipped  up  the  water 
from  the  cup  eagerly,  and  then  looked  up  at 
him,  as  if  to  ask  for  something  more.  Rags 
soaked  the  crusty  bread  in  the  water,  and  put 

165 


MR.   RAEGEN 

it  to  the  baby's  lips,  but  after  nibbling  at  it 
eagerly  she  shook  her  head  and  looked  up  at 
him  again  with  such  reproachful  pleading  in  her 
eyes,  that  Rags  felt  her  silence  more  keenly 
than  the  worst  abuse  he  had  ever  received. 

It  hurt  him  so,  that  the  pain  brought  tears 
to  his  eyes. 

"Deary  girl,"  he  cried,  "I'd  give  you  any 
thing  you  could  think  of  if  I  had  it.  But  I 
can't  get  it,  see?  It  ain't  that  I  don't  want  to 
—good  Lord,  little  'un,  you  don't  think  that,  do 
you?" 

The  baby  smiled  at  this,  just  as  though  she 
understood  him,  and  touched  his  face  as  if  to 
comfort  him,  so  that  Rags  felt  that  same  ex 
quisite  content  again,  which  moved  him  so 
strangely  whenever  the  child  caressed  him,  and 
which  left  him  soberly  wondering.  Then  the 
baby  crawled  up  onto  his  lap  and  dropped 
asleep,  while  Rags  sat  motionless  and  fanned 
her  with  a  folded  newspaper,  stopping  every 
now  and  then  to  pass  the  damp  cloth  over  her 
warm  face  and  arms.  It  was  quite  late  now. 
Outside  he  could  hear  the  neighbors  laughing 
and  talking  on  the  roofs,  and  when  one  group 
sang  hilariously  to  an  accordion,  he  cursed  them 
under  his  breath  for  noisy,  drunken  fools,  and 
in  his  anger  lest  they  should  disturb  the  child 
in  his  arms,  expressed  an  anxious  hope  that 

166 


MR.  RAEGEN 

they  would  fall  off  and  break  their  useless 
necks.  It  grew  silent  and  much  cooler  as  the 
night  ran  out,  but  Rags  still  sat  immovable, 
shivering  slightly  every  now  and  then,  and  cau 
tiously  stretching  his  stiff  legs  and  body.  The 
arm  that  held  the  child  grew  stiff  and  numb 
with  the  light  burden,  but  he  took  a  fierce 
pleasure  in  the  pain,  and  became  hardened  to 
it,  and  at  last  fell  into  an  uneasy  slumber  from 
which  he  awoke  to  pass  his  hands  gently  over 
the  soft  yielding  body,  and  to  draw  it  slowly 
and  closer  to  him.  And  then,  from  very  weari 
ness,  his  eyes  closed  and  his  head  fell  back 
heavily  against  the  wall,  and  the  man  and  the 
child  in  his  arms  slept  peacefully  in  the  dark 
corner  of  the  deserted  tenement. 

The  sun  rose  hissing  out  of  the  East  River,  a 
broad,  red  disk  of  heat.  It  swept  the  cross- 
streets  of  the  city  as  pitilessly  as  the  search 
light  of  a  man-of-war  sweeps  the  ocean.  It 
blazed  brazenly  into  open  windows,  and  changed 
beds  into  gridirons  on  which  the  sleepers  tossed 
and  turned  and  woke  unrefreshed  and  with 
throats  dry  and  parched.  Its  glare  awakened 
Rags  into  a  startled  belief  that  the  place  about 
him  was  on  fire,  and  he  stared  wildly  until  the 
child  in  his  arms  brought  him  back  to  the 
knowledge  of  where  he  was.  He  ached  in  every 
joint  and  limb,  and  his  eyes  smarted  with  the 

167 


MR.  RAEGEN 

dry  heat,  but  the  baby  concerned  him  most, 
for  she  was  breathing  with  hard,  long,  irregular 
gasps,  her  mouth  was  open  and  her  absurdly 
small  fists  were  clinched,  and  around  her  closed 
eyes  were  deep  blue  rings.  Rags  felt  a  cold 
rush  of  fear  and  uncertainty  come  over  him  as 
he  stared  about  him  helplessly  for  aid.  He  had 
seen  babies  look  like  this  before,  in  the  tene 
ments;  they  were  like  this  when  the  young  doc 
tors  of  the  Health  Board  climbed  to  the  roofs 
to  see  them,  and  they  were  like  this,  only  quiet 
and  still,  when  the  ambulance  came  clattering 
up  the  narrow  streets,  and  bore  them  away. 
Rags  carried  the  baby  into  the  outer  room, 
where  the  sun  had  not  yet  penetrated,  and  laid 
her  down  gently  on  the  coverlets;  then  he  let 
the  water  in  the  sink  run  until  it  was  fairly  cool, 
and  with  this  bathed  the  baby's  face  and  hands 
and  feet,  and  lifted  a  cup  of  the  water  to  her 
open  lips.  She  woke  at  this  and  smiled  again, 
but  very  faintly,  and  when  she  looked  at  him 
he  felt  fearfully  sure  that  she  did  not  know  him, 
and  that  she  was  looking  through  and  past  him 
at  something  he  could  not  see. 

He  did  not  know  what  to  do,  and  he  wanted 
to  do  so  much.  Milk  was  the  only  thing  he 
was  quite  sure  babies  cared  for,  but  in  want  of 
this  he  made  a  mess  of  bits  of  the  dry  ham  and 
crumbs  of  bread,  moistened  with  the  raw  whis- 

168 


MR.   RAEGEN 

key,  and  put  it  to  her  lips  on  the  end  of  a  spoon. 
The  baby  tasted  this,  and  pushed  his  hand 
away,  and  then  looked  up  and  gave  a  feeble 
cry,  and  seemed  to  say,  as  plainly  as  a  grown 
woman  could  have  said  or  written,  "It  isn't 
any  use,  Rags.  You  are  very  good  to  me,  but, 
indeed,  I  cannot  do  it.  Don't  worry,  please;  I 
don't  blame  you." 

"Great  Lord,"  gasped  Rags,  with  a  queer 
choking  in  his  throat,  "but  ain't  she  got  grit." 
Then  he  bethought  him  of  the  people  who  he 
still  believed  inhabited  the  rest  of  the  tenement, 
and  he  concluded  that  as  the  day  was  yet  so 
early  they  might  still  be  asleep,  and  that  while 
they  slept,  he  could  "lift" — as  he  mentally 
described  the  act — whatever  they  might  have 
laid  away  for  breakfast.  Excited  with  this 
hope,  he  ran  noiselessly  down  the  stairs  in  his 
bare  feet,  and  tried  the  doors  of  the  different 
landings.  But  each  he  found  open  and  each 
room  bare  and  deserted.  Then  it  occurred  to 
him  that  at  this  hour  he  might  even  risk  a  sally 
into  the  street.  He  had  money  with  him,  and 
the  milk-carts  and  bakers'  wagons  must  be 
passing  every  minute.  He  ran  back  to  get  the 
money  out  of  his  coat,  delighted  with  the  chance 
and  chiding  himself  for  not  having  dared  to  do 
it  sooner.  He  stood  over  the  baby  a  moment 
before  he  left  the  room,  and  flushed  like  a  girl 

169 


MR.  RAEGEN 

as  he  stooped  and  kissed  one  of  the  bare  arms. 
"I'm  going  out  to  get  you  some  breakfast,"  he 
said.  "I  won't  be  gone  long,  but  if  I  should," 
he  added,  as  he  paused  and  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders,  "I'll  send  the  sergeant  after  you  from  the 
station-house.  If  I  only  wasn't  under  bonds," 
he  muttered,  as  he  slipped  down  the  stairs. 
"If  it  wasn't  for  that  they  couldn't  give  me 
more'n  a  month  at  the  most,  even  knowing  all 
they  do  of  me.  It  was  only  a  street  fight,  any 
way,  and  there  was  some  there  that  must  have 
seen  him  pull  his  pistol."  He  stopped  at  the 
top  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs  and  sat  down  to 
wait.  He  could  see  below  the  top  of  the  open 
front  door,  the  pavement  and  a  part  of  the 
street  beyond,  and  when  he  heard  the  rattle  of 
an  approaching  cart  he  ran  on  down  and  then, 
with  an  oath,  turned  and  broke  up-stairs  again. 
He  had  seen  the  ward  detectives  standing  to 
gether  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 

"Wot  are  they  doing  out  a  bed  at  this  hour?" 
he  demanded  angrily.  "Don't  they  make  trou 
ble  enough  through  the  day,  without  prowling 
around  before  decent  people  are  up?  I  won 
der,  now,  if  they're  after  me."  He  dropped  on 
his  knees  when  he  reached  the  room  where  the 
baby  lay,  and  peered  cautiously  out  of  the  win 
dow  at  the  detectives,  who  had  been  joined  by 
two  other  men,  with  whom  they  were  talking 

170 


MR.  RAEGEN 

earnestly.  Raegen  knew  the  new-comers  for 
two  of  McGonegal's  friends,  and  concluded, 
with  a  momentary  flush  of  pride  and  self- 
importance,  that  the  detectives  were  forced  to 
be  up  at  this  early  hour  solely  on  his  account. 
But  this  was  followed  by  the  afterthought  that 
he  must  have  hurt  McGonegal  seriously,  and 
that  he  was  wanted  in  consequence  very  much. 
This  disturbed  him  most,  he  was  surprised  to 
find,  because  it  precluded  his  going  forth  in 
search  of  food.  "I  guess  I  can't  get  you  that 
milk  I  was  looking  for,"  he  said,  jocularly,  to 
the  baby,  for  the  excitement  elated  him.  "The 
sun  outside  isn't  good  for  me  health."  The 
baby  settled  herself  in  his  arms  and  slept  again, 
which  sobered  Rags,  for  he  argued  it  was  a 
bad  sign,  and  his  own  ravenous  appetite  warned 
him  how  the  child  suffered.  When  he  again 
offered  her  the  mixture  he  had  prepared  for  her, 
she  took  it  eagerly,  and  Rags  breathed  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction.  Then  he  ate  some  of  the  bread 
and  ham  himself  and  swallowed  half  the  whis 
key,  and  stretched  out  beside  the  child  and 
fanned  her  while  she  slept.  It  was  something 
strangely  incomprehensible  to  Rags  that  he 
should  feel  so  keen  a  satisfaction  in  doing  even 
this  little  for  her,  but  he  gave  up  wondering, 
and  forgot  everything  else  in  watching  the 
strange  beauty  of  the  sleeping  baby  and  in  the 

171 


MR.  RAEGEN 

odd  feeling  of  responsibility  and  self-respect 
she  had  brought  to  him. 

He  did  not  feel  it  coming  on,  or  he  would 
have  fought  against  it,  but  the  heat  of  the  day 
and  the  sleeplessness  of  the  night  before,  and 
the  fumes  of  the  whiskey  on  his  empty  stomach, 
drew  him  unconsciously  into  a  dull  stupor,  so 
that  the  paper  fan  slipped  from  his  hand,  and 
he  sank  back  on  the  bedding  into  a  heavy  sleep. 
When  he  awoke  it  was  nearly  dusk  and  past 
six  o'clock,  as  he  knew  by  the  newsboys  calling 
the  sporting  extras  on  the  street  below.  He 
sprang  up,  cursing  himself,  and  filled  with  bit 
ter  remorse. 

"I'm  a  drunken  fool,  that's  what  I  am,"  said 
Rags,  savagely.  "I've  let  her  lie  here  all  day 
in  the  heat  with  no  one  to  watch  her."  Mar 
garet  was  breathing  so  softly  that  he  could 
hardly  discern  any  life  at  all,  and  his  heart  al 
most  stopped  with  fear.  He  picked  her  up  and 
fanned  and  patted  her  into  wakefulness  again 
and  then  turned  desperately  to  the  window  and 
looked  down.  There  was  no  one  he  knew  or 
who  knew  him  as  far  as  he  could  tell  on  the 
street,  and  he  determined  recklessly  to  risk 
another  sortie  for  food. 

"Why,  it's  been  near  two  days  that  child's 
gone  without  eating,"  he  said,  with  keen  self- 
reproach,  "and  here  you've  let  her  suffer  to 

172 


MR.  RAEGEN 

save  yourself  a  trip  to  the  Island.  You're  a 
hulking  big  loafer,  you  are,"  he  ran  on,  mutter 
ing,  "and  after  her  coming  to  you  and  taking 
notice  of  you  and  putting  her  face  to  yours 
like  an  angel."  He  slipped  off  his  shoes  and 
picked  his  way  cautiously  down  the  stairs. 

As  he  reached  the  top  of  the  first  flight  a 
newsboy  passed,  calling  the  evening  papers,  and 
shouted  something  which  Rags  could  not  dis 
tinguish.  He  wished  he  could  get  a  copy  of  the 
paper.  It  might  tell  him,  he  thought,  some 
thing  about  himself.  The  boy  was  coming 
nearer,  and  Rags  stopped  and  leaned  forward 
to  listen. 

"  Extry !  Extry !"  shouted  the  newsboy,  run 
ning.  "Sun,  World,  and  Mail.  Full  account 
of  the  murder  of  Pike  McGonegal  by  Ragsey 
Raegen." 

.  The  lights  in  the  street  seemed  to  flash  up 
suddenly  and  grow  dim  again,  leaving  Rags 
blind  and  dizzy. 

"Stop,"  he  yelled,  "stop.  Murdered,  no,  by 
God,  no,"  he  cried,  staggering  half-way  down 
the  stairs;  "stop,  stop!"  But  no  one  heard 
Rags,  and  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  halted  him. 
He  sank  back  weak  and  sick  upon  the  top  step 
of  the  stairs  and  beat  his  hands  together  upon 
his  head. 

"It's  a  lie,  it's  a  lie,"  he  whispered,  thickly. 

173 


MR.  RAEGEN 

r^ 

"I  struck  him  in  self-defense,  s'help  me.  I 
struck  him  in  self-defense.  He  drove  me  to  it. 
He  pulled  his  gun  on  me.  I  done  it  in  self- 
defense." 

And  then  the  whole  appearance  of  the  young 
tough  changed,  and  the  terror  and  horror  that 

ihad  showed  on  his  face  turned  to  one  of  low 
sharpness  and  evil  cunning.  His  lips  drew  to 
gether  tightly  and  he  breathed  quickly  through 
his  nostrils,  while  his  fingers  locked  and  un 
locked  around  his  knees.  All  that  he  had 
learned  on  the  streets  and  wharfs  and  roof 
tops,  all  that  pitiable  experience  and  dangerous 
knowledge  that  had  made  him  a  leader  and  a 
hero  among  the  thieves  and  bullies  of  the  river 
front  he  called  to  his  assistance  now.  He  faced 
the  fact  flatly  and  with  the  cool  consideration  of 
an  uninterested  counsellor.  He  knew  that  the 
history  of  his  life  was  written  on  Police  Court 
blotters  from  the  day  that  he  was  ten  years  old, 
and  with  pitiless  detail;  that  what  friends  he 
had  he  held  more  by  fear  than  by  affection, 
and  that  his  enemies,  who  were  many,  only 
wanted  just  such  a  chance  as  this  to  revenge 

'injuries  long  suffered  and  bitterly  cherished, 
and  that  his  only  safety  lay  in  secret  and  in 
stant  flight.  The  ferries  were  watched,  of 
course;  he  knew  that  the  depots,  too,  were  cov 
ered  by  the  men  whose  only  duty  was  to  watch 

174 


MR.   RAEGEN 

the  coming  and  to  halt  the  departing  criminal. 
But  he  knew  of  one  old  man  who  was  too  wise 
to  ask  questions  and  who  would  row  him  over 
the  East  River  to  Astoria,  and  of  another  on 
the  west  side  whose  boat  was  always  at  the 
disposal  of  silent  white-faced  young  men  who 
might  come  at  any  hour  of  the  night  or  morn 
ing,  and  whom  he  would  pilot  across  to  the 
Jersey  shore  and  keep  well  away  from  the  lights 
of  the  passing  ferries  and  the  green  lamp  of  the 
police  boat.  And  once  across,  he  had  only  to 
change  his  name  and  write  for  money  to  be 
forwarded  to  that  name,  and  turn  to  work  until 
the  thing  was  covered  up  and  forgotten.  He 
rose  to  his  feet  in  his  full  strength  again,  and 
intensely  and  agreeably  excited  with  the  danger, 
and  possibly  fatal  termination  of  his  adventure, 
and  then  there  fell  upon  him,  with  the  sudden 
ness  of  a  blow,  the  remembrance  of  the  little 
child  lying  on  the  dirty  bedding  in  the  room 
above. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  muttered  fiercely;  "I  can't 
do  it,"  he  cried,  as  if  he  argued  with  some  other 
presence.  "  There's  a  rope  around  me  neck, 
and  the  chances  are  all  against  me;  it's  every 
man  for  himself  and  no  favor."  He  threw  his 
arms  out  before  him  as  if  to  push  the  thought 
away  from  him  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
hair  and  over  his  face.  All  of  his  old  self  rose 

175 


MR.   RAEGEN 

in  him  and  mocked  him  for  a  weak  fool,  and 
showed  him  just  how  great  his  personal  danger 
was,  and  so  he  turned  and  dashed  forward  on  a 
run,  not  only  to  the  street,  but  as  if  to  escape 
from  the  other  self  that  held  him  back.  He  was 
still  without  his  shoes,  and  in  his  bare  feet,  and 
he  stopped  as  he  noticed  this  and  turned  to  go 
up-stairs  for  them,  and  then  he  pictured  to 
himself  the  baby  lying  as  he  had  left  her,  weakly 
unconscious  and  with  dark  rims  around  her 
eyes,  and  he  asked  himself  excitedly  what 
he  would  do,  if,  on  his  return,  she  should 
wake  and  smile  and  reach  out  her  hands  to 
him. 

"I  don't  dare  go  back,"  he  said,  breathlessly. 
"I  don't  dare  do  it;  killing!s  too  good  for  the 
likes  of  Pike  McGonegal,  but  I'm  not  fighting 
babies.  An'  maybe,  if  I  went  back,  maybe  I 
wouldn't  have  the  nerve  to  leave  her;  I  can't 
do  it,"  he  muttered,  "I  don't  dare  go  back." 
But  still  he  did  not  stir,  but  stood  motionless, 
with  one  hand  trembling  on  the  stair-rail  and 
the  other  clinched  beside  him,  and  so  fought  it 
on  alone  in  the  silence  of  the  empty  building. 

The  lights  in  the  stores  below  came  out  one 
by  one,  and  the  minutes  passed  into  half-hours, 
and  still  he  stood  there  with  the  noise  of  the 
streets  coming  up  to  him  below  speaking  of 
escape  and  of  a  long  life  of  ill-regulated  plea- 

•76 


MR.   RAEGEN  . 

sures,  and  up  above  him  the  baby  lay  in  the 
darkness  and  reached  out  her  hands  to  him  in 
her  sleep. 

The  surly  old  sergeant  of  the  Twenty-first 
Precinct  station-house  had  read  the  evening 
papers  through  for  the  third  time  and  was  doz 
ing  in  the  fierce  lights  of  the  gas-jet  over  the 
high  desk  when  a  young  man  with  a  white,  hag 
gard  face  came  in  from  the  street  with  a  baby 
in  his  arms. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  woman  thet  look  after  the 
station-house — quick,"  he  said. 

The  surly  old  sergeant  did  not  like  the  per 
emptory  tone  of  the  young  man  nor  his  general 
appearance,  for  he  had  no  hat,  nor  coat,  and  his 
feet  were  bare;  so  he  said,  with  deliberate  dig 
nity,  that  the  char-woman  was  up-stairs  lying 
down,  and  what  did  the  young  man  want  with 
her?  "This  child,"  said  the  visitor,  in  a. queer 
thick  voice,  "she's  sick.  The  heat's  come  over 
her,  and  she  ain't  had  anything  to  eat  for  two 
days,  an'  she's  starving.  Ring  the  bell  for  the 
matron,  will  yer,  and  send  one  of  your  men 
around  for  the  house  surgeon."  The  sergeant 
leaned  forward  comfortably  on  his  elbows,  with 
his  hands  under  his  chin  so  that  the  gold  lace 
on  his  cuffs  shone  effectively  in  the  gas 
light.  He  believed  he  had  a  sense  of  humor 

177 


MR.  RAEGEN 

and  he  chose  this  unfortunate  moment  to  ex 
hibit  it. 

"Did  you  take  this  for  a  dispensary,  young 
man?'*  he  asked;  "or,"  he  continued,  with 
added  facetiousness,  "a  foundling  hospital?" 

The  young  man  made  a  savage  spring  at  the 
barrier  in  front  of  the  high  desk.  "Damn  you," 
he  panted,  "ring  that  bell,  do  you  hear  me,  or 
I'll  pull  you  off  that  seat  and  twist  your  heart 
out." 

The  baby  cried  at  this  sudden  outburst,  and 
Rags  fell  back,  patting  it  with  his  hand  and 
muttering  between  his  closed  teeth.  The  ser 
geant  called  to  the  men  of  the  reserve  squad  in 
the  reading-room  beyond,  and  to  humor  this 
desperate  visitor,  sounded  the  gong  for  the 
janitress.  The  reserve  squad  trooped  in  lei 
surely  with  the  playing-cards  in  their  hands  and 
with  their  pipes  in  their  mouths. 

"This  man,"  growled  the  sergeant,  pointing 
with  the  end  of  his  cigar  to  Rags,  "is  either 
drunk,  or  crazy,  or  a  bit  of  both." 

The  char- woman  came  down-stairs  majesti 
cally,  in  a  long,  loose  wrapper,  fanning  herself 
with  a  palm-leaf  fan,  but  when  she  saw  the 
child,  her  majesty  dropped  from  her  like  a  cloak, 
and  she  ran  toward  her  and  caught  the  baby 
up  in  her  arms.  "You  poor  little  thing,"  she 
murmured,  "and,  oh,  how  beautiful!"  Then 


MR.  RAEGEN 

she  whirled  about  on  the  men  of  the  reserve 
squad:  "You,  Conners,"  she  said,  "run  up  to 
my  room  and  get  the  milk  out  of  my  ice-chest; 
and,  Moore,  put  on  your  coat  and  go  around 
and  tell  the  surgeon  I  want  to  see  him.  And 
one  of  you  crack  some  ice  up  fine  in  a  towel. 
Take  it  out  of  the  cooler.  Quick,  now." 

Raegen  came  up  to  her  fearfully.  "Is  she 
very  sick?"  he  begged;  "she  ain't  going  to  die, 
is  she?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  woman,  promptly, 
"but  she's  down  with  the  heat,  and  she  hasn't 
been  properly  cared  for;  the  child  looks  half- 
starved.  Are  you  her  father?"  she  asked, 
sharply.  But  Rags  did  not  speak,  for  at  the 
moment  she  had  answered  his  question  and 
had  said  the  baby  would  not  die,  he  had  reached 
out  swiftly,  and  taken  the  child  out  of  her 
arms  and  held  it  hard  against  his  breast,  as 
though  he  had  lost  her  and  some  one  had  been 
just  giving  her  back  to  him. 

His  head  was  bending  over  hers,  and  so  he 
did  not  see  Wade  and  HefFner,  the  two  ward 
detectives,  as  they  came  in  from  the  street,  look 
ing  hot,  and  tired,  and  anxious.  They  gave  a 
careless  glance  at  the  group,  and  then  stopped 
with  a  start,  and  one  of  them  gave  a  long,  low 
whistle. 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Wade,  with  a  gasp  of 
179 


MR.   RAEGEN 

prise  and  relief.  "So,  Raegen,  you're  here, 
after  all,  are  you?  Well,  you  did  give  us  a 
chase,  you  did.  Who  took  you?" 

The  men  of  the  reserve  squad,  when  they 
heard  the  name  of  the  man  for  whom  the  whole 
force  had  been  looking  for  the  past  two  days, 
shifted  their  positions  slightly,  and  looked  curi 
ously  at  Rags,  and  the  woman  stopped  pouring 
out  the  milk  from  the  bottle  in  her  hand,  and 
stared  at  him  in  frank  astonishment.  Raegen 
threw  back  his  head  and  shoulders,  and  ran  his 
eyes  coldly  over  the  faces  of  the  semicircle  of 
men  around  him. 

"Who  took  me?"  he  began,  defiantly,  with  a 
swagger  of  braggadocio,  and  then,  as  though  it 
were  hardly  worth  while,  and  as  though  the 
presence  of  the  baby  lifted  him  above  every 
thing  else,  he  stopped,  and  raised  her  until  her 
cheek  touched  his  own.  It  rested  there  a  mo 
ment,  while  Rags  stood  silent. 

"Who  took  me?"  he  repeated,  quietly,  and 
without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  baby's  face. 
"Nobody  took  me,"  he  said.  "I  gave  myself 
up." 

One  morning,  three  months  later,  when 
Raegen  had  stopped  his  ice-cart  in  front  of  my 
door,  I  asked  him  whether  at  any  time  he  had 
ever  regretted  what  he  had  done. 

1 80 


'She'd  reach  out  her  hands  and  kiss  me." 


MR.   RAEGEN 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  with  easy  superiority, 
"seeing  that  I've  shook  the  gang,  and  that  the 
Society's  decided  her  folks  ain't  fit  to  take  care 
of  her,  we  can't  help  thinking  we  are  better  off, 
see? 

"But,  as  for  my  ever  regretting  it,  why,  even 
when  things  was  at  the  worst,  when  the  case 
was  going  dead  against  me,  and  before  that 
cop,  you  remember,  swore  to  McGonegal's 
drawing  the  pistol,  and  when  I  used  to  sit  in 
the  Tombs  expecting  I'd  have  to  hang  for  it, 
well,  even  then,  they  used  to  bring  her  to  see 
me  every  day,  and  when  they'd  lift  her  up,  and 
she'd  reach  out  her  hands  and  kiss  me  through 
the  bars,  why — they  could  have  took  me  out 
and  hung  me,  and  been  damned  to  'em,  for  all 
I'd  have  cared." 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

HE  came  down  the  steps  slowly,  and  pulling 
mechanically  at  his  gloves. 

He  remembered  afterward  that  some  wom 
an's  face  had  nodded  brightly  to  him  from  a 
passing  brougham,  and  that  he  had  lifted  his 
hat  through  force  of  habit,  and  without  knowing 
who  she  was. 

He  stopped  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  uncertainly,  and  then 
turned  toward  the  north,  not  because  he  had 
any  definite  goal  in  his  mind,  but  because  the 
other  way  led  toward  his  rooms,  and  he  did 
not  want  to  go  there  yet. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  strange  feeling  of  ela 
tion,  which  he  attributed  to  his  being  free,  and 
to  the  fact  that  he  was  his  own  master  again  in 
everything.  And  with  this  he  confessed  to  a 
distinct  feeling  of  littleness,  of  having  acted 
meanly  or  unworthily  of  himself  or  of  her. 

And  yet  he  had  behaved  well,  even  quixoti 
cally.  He  had  tried  to  leave  the  impression 
with  her  that  it  was  her  wish,  and  that  she  had 
broken  with  him,  not  he  with  her. 

He  held  a  man  who  threw  a  girl  over  as  some- 
182 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

thing  contemptible,  and  he  certainly  did  not 
want  to  appear  to  himself  in  that  light;  or,  for 
her  sake,  that  people  should  think  he  had  tired 
of  her,  or  found  her  wanting  in  any  one  particu 
lar.  He  knew  only  too  well  how  people  would 
talk.  How  they  would  say  he  had  never  really 
cared  for  her;  that  he  didn't  know  his  own  mind 
when  he  had  proposed  to  her;  and  that  it  was 
a  great  deal  better  for  her  as  it  is  than  if  he  had 
grown  out  of  humor  with  her  later.  As  to  their , 
saying  she  had  jilted  him,  he  didn't  mind  that. 
He  much  preferred  they  should  take  that  view 
of  it,  and  he  was  chivalrous  enough  to  hope  she 
would  think  so  too. 

He  was  walking  slowly,  and  had  reached 
Thirtieth  Street.  A  great  many  young  girls 
and  women  had  bowed  to  him  or  nodded  from 
the  passing  carriages,  but  it  did  not  tend  to 
disturb  the  measure  of  his  thoughts.  He  was 
used  to  having  people  put  themselves  out  to 
speak  to  him;  everybody  made  a  point  of  know 
ing  him,  not  because  he  was  so  very  handsome 
and  well-looking,  and  an  over-popular  youth, 
but  because  he  was  as  yet  unspoiled  by  it. 

But,  in  any  event,  he  concluded,  it  was  a  mis 
erable  business.  Still,  he  had  only  done  what 
was  right.  He  had  seen  it  coming  on  for  a 
month  now,  and  how  much  better  it  was  that 
they  should  separate  now  than  later,  or  that 

183 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

they  should  have  had  to  live  separated  in  all 
but  location  for  the  rest  of  their  lives !  Yes,  he 
had  done  the  right  thing — decidedly  the  only 
thing  to  do. 

He  was  still  walking  up  the  Avenue,  and  had 
reached  Thirty-second  Street,  at  which  point  his 
thoughts  received  a  sudden  turn.  A  half-dozen 
men  in  a  club  window  nodded  to  him,  and 
brought  to  him  sharply  what  he  was  going  back 
to.  He  had  dropped  out  of  their  lives  as  en 
tirely  of  late  as  though  he  had  been  living  in  a 
distant  city.  When  he  had  met  them  he  had 
found  their  company  uninteresting  and  unprof 
itable.  He  had  wondered  how  he  had  ever 
cared  for  that  sort  of  thing,  and  where  had 
been  the  pleasure  of  it.  Was  he  going  back 
now  to  the  gossip  of  that  window,  to  the  heavy 
discussions  of  traps  and  horses,  to  late  break 
fasts  and  early  suppers?  Must  he  listen  to 
their  congratulations  on  his  being  one  of  them 
again,  and  must  he  guess  at  their  whispered 
conjectures  as  to  how  soon  it  would  be  before 
he  again  took  up  the  chains  and  harness  of 
their  fashion?  He  struck  the  pavement  sharply 
with  his  stick.  No,  he  was  not  going  back. 

She  had  taught  him  to  find  amusement  and 
occupation  in  many  things  that  were  better  and 
higher  than  any  pleasures  or  pursuits  he  had 
known  before,  and  he  could  not  give  them  up. 

184 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

He  had  her  to  thank  for  that  at  least.  And  he 
would  give  her  credit  for  it,  too,  and  gratefully. 
He  would  always  remember  it,  and  he  would 
show  in  his  way  of  living  the  influence  and  the 
good  effects  of  these  three  months  in  which  they 
had  been  continually  together. 

He  had  reached  Forty-second  Street  now. 

Well,  it  was  over  with,  and  he  would  get  to 
work  at  something  or  other.  This  experience 
had  shown  him  that  he  was  not  meant  for  mar 
riage;  that  he  was  intended  to  live  alone.  Be 
cause,  if  he  found  that  a  girl  as  lovely  as  she 
undeniably  was  palled  on  him  after  three 
months,  it  was  evident  that  he  would  never  live 
through  life  with  any  other  one.  Yes,  he  would 
always  be  a  bachelor.  He  had  lived  his  life, 
had  told  his  story  at  the  age  of  twenty-five, 
and  would  wait  patiently  for  the  end,  a  marked 
and  gloomy  man.  He  would  travel  now  and 
see  the  world.  He  would  go  to  that  hotel  in 
Cairo  she  was  always  talking  about,  where  they 
were  to  have  gone  on  their  honeymoon;  or  he 
might  strike  further  into  Africa,  and  come  back 
bronzed  and  worn  with  long  marches  and  jungle 
fever,  and  with  his  hair  prematurely  white.  He 
even  considered  himself,  with  great  self-pity, 
returning  and  finding  her  married  and  happy, 
of  course.  And  he  enjoyed,  in  anticipation, 
the  secret  doubts  she  would  have  of  her  later 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

choice  when  she  heard  on  all  sides  praise  of  this 
distinguished  traveller. 

And  he  pictured  himself  meeting  her  reproach 
ful  glances  with  fatherly  friendliness,  and  pre 
senting  her  husband  with  tiger-skins,  and  buy 
ing  her  children  extravagant  presents. 

This  was  at  Forty-fifth  Street. 

Yes,  that  was  decidedly  the  best  thing  to  do. 
To  go  away  and  improve  himself,  and  study  up 
all  those  painters  and  cathedrals  with  which 
she  was  so  hopelessly  conversant. 

He  remembered  how  out  of  it  she  had  once 
made  him  feel,  and  how  secretly  he  had  admired 
her  when  she  had  referred  to  a  modern  painting 
as  looking  like  those  in  the  long  gallery  of  the 
Louvre.  He  thought  he  knew  all  about  the 
Louvre,  but  he  would  go  over  again  and  locate 
that  long  gallery,  and  become  able  to  talk  to  her 
understandingly  about  it. 

And  then  it  came  over  him  like  a  blast  of  icy 
air  that  he  could  never  talk  over  things  with 
her  again.  He  had  reached  Fifty-fifth  Street 
now,  and  the  shock  brought  him  to  a  standstill 
on  the  corner,  where  he  stood  gazing  blankly 
before  him.  He  felt  rather  weak  physically, 
and  decided  to  go  back  to  his  rooms,  and  then 
he  pictured  how  cheerless  they  would  look,  and 
how  little  of  comfort  they  contained.  He  had 
used  them  only  to  dress  and  sleep  in  of  late, 

1 86 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

and  the  distaste  with  which  he  regarded  the 
idea  that  he  must  go  back  to  them  to  read  and 
sit  and  live  in  them,  showed  him  how  utterly 
his  life  had  become  bound  up  with  the  house  on 
Twenty-seventh  Street. 

"Where  was  he  to  go  in  the  evening?"  he 
asked  himself,  with  pathetic  hopelessness,  "or 
in  the  morning  or  afternoon  for  that  matter?" 
Were  there  to  be  no  more  of  those  journeys  to 
picture-galleries  and  to  the  big  publishing 
houses,  where  they  used  to  hover  over  the  new 
book  counter  and  pull  the  books  about,  and. 
make  each  other  innumerable  presents  of  daintily 
bound  volumes,  until  the  clerks  grew  to  know 
them  so  well  that  they  never  went  through  the 
form  of  asking  where  the  books  were  to  be  sent  ? 
And  those  tete-a-tete  luncheons  at  her  house 
when  her  mother  was  up-stairs  with  a  headache 
or  a  dressmaker,  and  the  long  rides  and  walks 
in  the  Park  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  rush 
down-town  to  dress,  only  to  return  to  dine  with 
them,  ten  minutes  late  always,  and  always  with 
some  new  excuse,  which  was  allowed  if  it  was 
clever,  and  frowned  at  if  it  was  commonplace — 
was  all  this  really  over? 

Why,  the  town  had  only  run  on  because  she 
was  in  it,  and  as  he  walked  the  streets  the  very 
shop  windows  had  suggested  her  to  him — 
florists  only  existed  that  he  might  send  her 

187 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

flowers,  and  gowns  and  bonnets  in  the  milliners' 
windows  were  only  pretty  as  they  would  become 
her;  and  as  for  the  theatres  and  the  newspapers, 
they  were  only  worth  while  as  they  gave  her 
pleasure.  And  he  had  given  all  this  up,  and  for 
what,  he  asked  himself,  and  why? 

He  could  not  answer  that  now.  It  was  sim 
ply  because  he  had  been  surfeited  with  too 
much  content,  he  replied,  passionately.  He  had 
not  appreciated  how  happy  he  had  been.  She 
had  been  too  kind,  too  gracious.  He  had  never 
known  until  he  had  quarrelled  with  her  and 
lost  her  how  precious  and  dear  she  had  been 
to  him. 

He  was  at  the  entrance  to  the  Park  now,  and 
he  strode  on  along  the  walk,  bitterly  upbraiding 
himself  for  being  worse  than  a  criminal — a  fool, 
a  common  blind  mortal  to  whom  a  goddess  had 
stooped. 

He  remembered  with  bitter  regret  a  turn  off 
the  drive  into  which  they  had  wandered  one 
day,  a  secluded,  pretty  spot  with  a  circle  of  box 
around  it,  and  into  the  turf  of  which  he  had 
driven  his  stick,  and  claimed  it  for  them  both 
by  the  right  of  discovery.  And  he  recalled  how 
they  had  used  to  go  there,  just  out  of  sight  of 
their  friends  in  the  ride,  and  sit  and  chatter  on 
a  green  bench  beneath  a  bush  of  box,  like  any 
nursery  maid  and  her  young  man,  while  her 

1 88 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

groom  stood  at  the  brougham  door  in  the  bridle 
path  beyond.  He  had  broken  off  a  sprig  of  the 
box  one  day  and  given  it  to  her,  and  she  had 
kissed  it  foolishly,  and  laughed,  and  hidden  it  in 
the  folds  of  her  riding-skirt,  in  burlesque  fear 
lest  the  guards  should  arrest  them  for  breaking 
the  much-advertised  ordinance. 

And  he  remembered  with  a  miserable  smile 
how  she  had  delighted  him  with  her  account  of 
her  adventure  to  her  mother,  and  described 
them  as  fleeing  down  the  Avenue  with  their 
treasure,  pursued  by  a  squadron  of  mounted 
policemen. 

This  and  a  hundred  other  of  the  foolish, 
happy  fancies  they  had  shared  in  common  came 
back  to  him,  and  he  remembered  how  she  had 
stopped  one  cold  afternoon  just  outside  of  this 
favorite  spot,  beside  an  open  iron  grating  sunk 
in  the  path,  into  which  the  rain  had  washed 
the  autumn  leaves,  and  pretended  it  was  a 
steam  radiator,  and  held  her  slim  gloved  hands 
out  over  it  as  if  to  warm  them. 

How  absurdly  happy  she  used  to  make  him, 
and  how  light-hearted  she  had  been !  He  de 
termined  suddenly  and  sentimentally  to  go  to 
that  secret  place  now,  and  bury  the  engagement 
ring  she  had  handed  back  to  him  under  that 
bush  as  he  had  buried  his  hopes  of  happiness, 
and  he  pictured  how  some  day  when  he  was 

189 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

dead  she  would  read  of  this  in  his  will,  and  go 
and  dig  up  the  ring,  and  remember  and  forgive 
him.  He  struck  off  from  the  walk  across  the 
turf  straight  toward  this  dell,  taking  the  ring 
from  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  clinching  it  in 
his  hand.  He  was  walking  quickly  with  rapt 
interest  in  this  idea  of  abnegation  when  he 
noticed,  unconsciously  at  first  and  then  with 
a  start,  the  familiar  outlines  and  colors  of  her 
brougham  drawn  up  in  the  drive  not  twenty 
yards  from  their  old  meeting-place.  He  could 
not  be  mistaken;  he  knew  the  horses  well 
enough,  and  there  was  old  Wallis  on  the  box 
and  young  Wallis  on  the  path. 

He  stopped  breathlessly,  and  then  tipped  on 
cautiously,  keeping  the  encircling  line  of  bushes 
between  him  and  the  carriage.  And  then  he 
saw  through  the  leaves  that  there  was  some 
one  in  the  place,  and  that  it  was  she.  He 
stopped,  confused  and  amazed.  He  could  not 
comprehend  it.  She  must  have  driven  to  the 
place  immediately  on  his  departure.  But  why? 
And  why  to  that  place  of  all  others? 

He  parted  the  bushes  with  his  hands,  and" 
saw  her  lovely  and  sweet-looking  as  she  had 
always  been,  standing  under  the  box  bush  be 
side  the  bench,  and  breaking  off  one  of  the 
green  branches.  The  branch  parted  and  the 
stem  flew  back  to  its  place  again,  leaving  a 

190 


A  WALK  UP  THE  AVENUE 

green  sprig  in  her  hand.  She  turned  at  that 
moment  directly  toward  him,  and  he  could  see 
from  his  hiding-place  how  she  lifted  the  leaves 
to  her  lips,  and  that  a  tear  was  creeping  down 
her  cheek. 

Then  he  dashed  the  bushes  aside  with  both 
arms,  and  with  a  cry  that  no  one  but  she  heard 
sprang  toward  her. 

Young  Van  Bibber  stopped  his  mail  phaeton 
in  front  of  the  club,  and  went  inside  to  recuper 
ate,  and  told  how  he  had  seen  them  driving 
home  through  the  Park  in  her  brougham  and 
unchaperoned. 

"Which  I  call  very  bad  form,"  said  the  punc 
tilious  Van  Bibber,  "even  though  they  are  en 
gaged."  ft  > 


CINDERELLA 

THE  servants  of  the  Hotel  Salisbury,  which  is 
so  called  because  it  is  situated  on  Broadway 
and  conducted  on  the  American  plan  by  a  man 
named  Riggs,  had  agreed  upon  a  date  for  their 
annual  ball  and  volunteer  concert,  and  had 
announced  that  it  would  eclipse  every  other 
annual  ball  in  the  history  of  the  hotel.  As  the 
Hotel  Salisbury  had  been  only  two  years  in 
existence,  this  was  not  an  idle  boast,  and  it  had 
the  effect  of  inducing  many  people  to  buy  the 
tickets,  which  sold  at  a  dollar  apiece,  and  were 
good  for  "one  gent  and  a  lady,"  and  entitled 
the  bearer  to  a  hat-check  without  extra  charge. 

In  the  flutter  of  preparation  all  ranks  were 
temporarily  levelled,  and  social  barriers  taken 
down  with  the  mutual  consent  of  those  sepa 
rated  by  them;  the  night-clerk  so  far  unbent  as 
to  personally  request  the  colored  hall-boy  Num 
ber  Eight  to  play  a  banjo-solo  at  the  concert, 
which  was  to  fill  in  the  pauses  between  the 
dances,  and  the  chamber-maids  timidly  con 
sulted  with  the  lady  telegraph-operator  and  the 
lady  in  charge  of  the  telephone,  as  to  whether 
or  not  they  intended  to  wear  hats. 

192 


CINDERELLA 

And  so  every  employee  on  every  floor  of  the 
hotel  was  working  individually  for  the  success  of 
the  ball,  from  the  engineers  in  charge  of  the 
electric-light  plant  in  the  cellar  to  the  night- 
watchman  on  the  ninth  story,  and  the  elevator- 
boys,  who  belonged  to  no  floor  in  particular. 

Miss  Celestine  Terrell,  who  was  Mrs.  Grahame 
West  in  private  life,  and  young  Grahame  West, 
who  played  the  part  opposite  to  hers  in  the 
Gilbert  and  Sullivan  Opera  that  was  then  in 
the  third  month  of  its  New  York  run,  were 
among  the  honored  patrons  of  the  Hotel  Salis 
bury.  Miss  Terrell,  in  her  utter  inability  to 
adjust  the  American  coinage  to  English  stand 
ards,  and  also  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart,  had 
given  too  generous  tips  to  all  of  the  hotel  wait 
ers,  and  some  of  this  money  had  passed  into 
the  gallery  window  of  the  Broadway  Theatre, 
where  the  hotel  waiters  had  heard  her  sing  and 
seen  her  dance,  and  had  failed  to  recognize  her 
young  husband  in  the  Lord  Chancellor's  wig 
and  black  silk  court-dress.  So  they  knew  that 
she  was  a  celebrated  personage,  and  they  urged 
the  maitre  d' hotel  to  invite  her  to  the  ball,  and 
then  persuade  her  to  take  a  part  in  their  vol 
unteer  concert. 

Paul,  the  head-waiter,  or  "Pierrot,"  as  Gra 
hame  West  called  him,  because  it  was  shorter, 
as  he  explained,  hovered  over  the  two  young 


CINDERELLA 

English  people  one  night  at  supper,  and  served 
them  lavishly  with  his  own  hands. 

"Miss  Terrell,"  said  Paul,  nervously — "I  beg 
pardon,  Madam,  Mrs.  Grahame  West,  I  should 
say — I  would  like  to  make  an  invitation  to 
you." 

Celestine  looked  at  her  husband  inquiringly, 
#nd  bowed  her  head  for  Paul  to  continue. 

"The  employees  of  the  Salisbury  give  the 
annual  ball  and  concert  on  the  sixteenth  of 
December,  and  the  committee  have  inquired 
and  requested  of  me,  on  account  of  your  kind 
ness,  to  ask  you  would  you  be  so  polite  as  to 
sing  a  little  song  for  us  at  the  night  of  our  ball?" 

The  head-waiter  drew  a  long  breath  and 
straightened  himself  with  a  sense  of  relief  at 
having  done  his  part,  whether  the  Grahame 
Wests  did  theirs  or  not. 

As  a  rule,  Miss  Terrell  did  not  sing  in  private, 
and  had  only  broken  this  rule  twice,  when  the 
inducements  which  led  her  to  do  so  were  forty 
pounds  for  each  performance,  and  the  fact  that 
her  beloved  Princess  of  Wales  was  to  be  present. 
So  she  hesitated  for  an  instant. 

"Why,  you  are  very  good,"  she  said,  doubt 
fully.  "Will  there  be  any  other  people  there — 
any  one  not  an  employee,  I  mean?" 

Paul  misunderstood  her  and  became  a  ser 
vant  again. 

194 


CINDERELLA 

"No,  I  am  afraid  there  will  be  only  the  em 
ployees,  Madam,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  then,  I  should  be  very  glad  to  come,'* 
murmured  Celestine,  sweetly.  "But  I  never 
sing  out  of  the  theatre,  so  you  mustn't  mind  if 
it  is  not  good." 

The  head-waiter  played  a  violent  tattoo  on 
the  back  of  the  chair  in  his  delight,  and  bal 
anced  and  bowed. 

"Ah,  we  are  very  proud  and  pleased  that  we 
can  induce  Madam  to  make  so  great  excep 
tions,"  he  declared.  "The  committee  will  be 
most  happy.  We  will  send  a  carriage  for  Ma 
dam,  and  a  bouquet  for  Madam  also,"  he  added, 
grandly,  as  one  who  was  not  to  be  denied  the 
etiquette  to  which  he  plainly  showed  he  was 
used. 

"Will  we  come?"  cried  Van  Bibber,  incredu 
lously,  as  he  and  Travers  sat  watching  Grahame 
make  up  in  his  dressing-room.  "I  should  say 
we  would  come.  And  you  must  all  take  supper 
with  us  first,  and  we  will  get  Letty  Chamber- 
Iain  from  the  Gaiety  Company  and  Lester  to 
come,  too,  and  make  them  each  do  a  turn." 

"And  we  can  dance  on  the  floor  ourselves, 
can't  we?"  asked  Grahame  West,  "as  they  do 
at  home  Christmas-eve  in  the  servants'  hall, 
when  her  ladyship  dances  in  the  same  set 

195 


CINDERELLA 

> 

with  the  butler,  and  the  men  waltz  with  the 
«ook." 

"Well,  over  here,"  said  Van  Bibber,  "you'll 
have  to  be  careful  that  you're  properly  pre 
sented  to  the  cook  first,  or  she'll  appeal  to  the 
floor  committee  and  have  you  thrown  out." 

"The  interesting  thing  about  that  ball,"  said 
Travers,  as  he  and  Van  Bibber  walked  home 
that  night,  "is  the  fact  that  those  hotel  people 
are  getting  a  galaxy  of  stars  to  amuse  them  for 
nothing  who  wouldn't  exhibit  themselves  at  a 
Fifth  Avenue  dance  for  all  the  money  in  Wall 
Street.  And  the  joke  of  it  is  going  to  be  that 
the  servants  will  vastly  prefer  the  banjo-solo 
by  hall-boy  Number  Eight." 

Lyric  Hall  lies  just  this  side  of  the  Forty- 
second  Street  station  along  the  line  of  the  Sixth 
Avenue  Elevated  road,  and  you  can  look  into 
its  windows  from  the  passing  train.  It  was 
after  one  o'clock  when  the  invited  guests  and 
their  friends  pushed  open  the  storm-doors  and 
were  recognized  by  the  anxious  committee-men 
who  were  taking  tickets  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
The  committee-men  fled  in  different  directions, 
shouting  for  Mr.  Paul,  and  Mr.  Paul  arrived 
beaming  with  delight  and  moisture,  and  pre 
sented  a  huge  bouquet  to  Mrs.  West,  and  wel 
comed  her  friends  with  hospitable  warmth. 

Mrs.  West  and  Miss  Chamberlain  took  off 
196 


CINDERELLA 

their  hats  and  the  men  gave  up  their  ca^  not 
without  misgivings,  to  a  sleepy  young  man  who 
said  pleasantly,  as  he  dragged  them  into  the 
coat-room  window,  "that  they  would  be  play 
ing  in  great  luck  if  they  ever  saw  them 
again." 

"  I  don't  need  to  give  you  no  checks,"  he  ex 
plained;  "just  ask  for  the  coats  with  real  fur  on 
'em.  Nobody  else  has  any." 

There  was  a  balcony  overhanging  the  floor, 
and  the  invited  guests  were  escorted  to  it,  and 
given  seats  where  they  could  look  down  upon 
the  dancers  below,  and  the  committee-men,  in 
dangling  badges  with  edges  of  silver  fringe, 
stood  behind  their  chairs  and  poured  out  cham 
pagne  for  them  lavishly,  and  tore  up  the  wine- 
check  which  the  barkeeper  brought  with  it, 
with  princely  hospitality. 

The  entrance  of  the  invited  guests  created 
but  small  interest,  and  neither  the  beauty  of 
the  two  English  girls  nor  Lester's  well-known 
features,  which  smiled  from  shop-windows  and 
on  every  ash-barrel  in  the  New  York  streets, 
aroused  any  particular  comment.  The  employ 
ees  were  much  more  occupied  with  the  lancers 
then  in  progress  and  with  the  joyful  actions  of 
one  of  their  number  who  was  playing  blind- 
man's-buff  with  himself,  and  swaying  from  set 
to  set  in  search  of  his  partner,  who  had  given 

197 


CINDERELLA 

him  up  as  hopeless  and  retired  to  the  supper- 
room  for  crackers  and  beer. 

Some  of  the  ladies  wore  bonnets,  and  others 
wore  flowers  in  their  hair,  and  a  half-dozen 
were  in  gowns  which  were  obviously  intended 
for  dancing  and  nothing  else.  But  none  of 
them  were  in  decollete  gowns.  A  few  wore 
gloves.  They  had  copied  the  fashions  of  their 
richer  sisters  with  the  intuitive  taste  of  the 
American  girl  of  their  class,  and  they  waltzed 
quite  as  well  as  the  ladies  whose  dresses  they 
copied,  and  many  of  them  were  exceedingly 
pretty.  The  costumes  of  the  gentlemen  varied 
from  the  clothes  they  wore  nightly  when  wait 
ing  on  the  table,  to  cutaway  coats  with  white 
satin  ties,  and  the  regular  blue  and  brass-but 
toned  uniform  of  the  hotel. 

"I  am  going  to  dance,"  said  Van  Bibber,  "if 
Mr.  Pierrot  will  present  me  to  one  of  the  ladies." 

Paul  introduced  him  to  a  lady  in  a  white 

cheese-cloth    dress    and    black    walking-shoes, 

'with  whom  no  one  else  would  dance,  and  the 

musicians  struck  up  "The  Band  Played  On," 

and  they  launched  out  upon  a  slippery  floor. 

Van  Bibber  was  conscious  that  his  friends 
were  applauding  him  in  dumb  show  from  the 
balcony,  and  when  his  partner  asked  who  they 
were,  he  repudiated  them  altogether,  and  said 
he  could  not  imagine,  but  that  he  guessed  from 

198 


CINDERELLA 

their  bad  manners  they  were  professional  enter 
tainers  hired  for  the  evening. 

The  music  stopped  abruptly,  and  as  he  saw 
Mrs.  West  leaving  the  balcony,  he  knew  that 
his  turn  had  come,  and  as  she  passed  him  he 
applauded  her  vociferously,  and  as  no  one  else 
applauded  even  slightly,  she  grew  very  red. 

Her  friends  knew  that  they  formed  the  audi 
ence  which  she  dreaded,  and  she  knew  that  they 
were  rejoicing  in  her  embarrassment,  which  the 
head  of  the  down-stairs  department,  as  Mr.  Paul 
described  him,  increased  to  an  hysterical  point 
by  introducing  her  as  "Miss  Ellen  Terry,  the 
great  English  actress,  who  would  now  oblige 
with  a  song." 

The  man  had  seen  the  name  of  the  wonderful 
English  actress  on  the  bill-boards  in  front  of 
Abbey's  Theatre,  and  he  had  been  told  that 
Miss  Terrell  was  English,  and  confused  the  two 
names.  As  he  passed  Van  Bibber  he  drew  his 
waistcoat  into  shape  with  a  proud  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  and  said,  anxiously,  "I  gave  your 
friend  a  good  introduction,  anyway,  didn't  I?" 

"You   did,   indeed,"   Van   Bibber  answered.. 
"You  couldn't  have  surprised  her  more;  and  it 
made  a  great  hit  with  me,  too." 

No  one  in  the  room  listened  to  the  singing. 
The  gentlemen  had  crossed  their  legs  comfort 
ably  and  were  expressing  their  regret  to  thai? 

199 


CINDERELLA 

partners  that  so  much  time  was  wasted  in  sand 
wiching  songs  between  the  waltzes,  and  the 
ladies  were  engaged  in  criticising  Celestine's 
,hair,  which  she  wore  in  a  bun.  They  thought 
that  it  might  be  English,  but  it  certainly  was 
not  their  idea  of  good  style. 

Celestine  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  her 
husband  and  Lester  were  hanging  far  over  the 
balcony,  holding  their  hands  to  their  eyes  as 
though  they  were  opera-glasses,  and  exclaiming 
with  admiration  and  delight;  and  when  she  had 
finished  the  first  verse,  they  pretended  to  think 
that  the  song  was  over,  and  shouted,  "Bravo, 
encore!"  and  applauded  frantically,  and  then, 
apparently  overcome  with  confusion  at  their 
mistake,  sank  back  entirely  from  sight. 

"I  think  Miss  Terrell's  an  elegant  singer," 
Van  Bibber's  partner  said  to  him.  "I  seen  her 
at  the  hotel  frequently.  She  has  such  a  pleas 
ant  way  with  her,  quite  lady-like.  She's  the 
only  actress  I  ever  saw  that  has  retained  her 
timidity.  She  acts  as  though  she  were  shy, 
don't  she?" 

Van  Bibber,  who  had  spent  a  month  on  the 
Thames  the  summer  before  with  the  Grahame 
Wests,  surveyed  Celestine  with  sudden  interest, 
as  though  he  had  never  seen  her  before  until 
that  moment,  and  agreed  that  she  did  look  shy, 
one  might  almost  say  frightened  to  death.  Mrs. 

200 


CINDERELLA 

West  rushed  through  the  second  verse  of  the 
song,  bowed  breathlessly,  and  ran  down  the 
steps  of  the  stage  and  back  to  the  refuge  of  the 
balcony,  while  the  audience  applauded  with 
perfunctory  politeness  and  called  clamorously 
to  the  musicians  to  "Let  her  go !" 

"And  that  is  the  song,"  commented  Van 
Bibber,  "that  gets  six  encores  and  three  calls 
every  night  on  Broadway!" 

Grahame  West  affected  to  be  greatly  cha 
grined  at  his  wife's  failure  to  charm  the  cham 
bermaids  and  porters  with  her  little  love-song, 
and  when  his  turn  came,  he  left  them  with  alac 
rity,  assuring  them  that  they  would  now  see 
the  difference,  as  he  would  sing  a  song  better 
suited  to  their  level. 

But  the  song  that  had  charmed  London  and 
captured  the  unprotected  coast-town  of  New 
York,  fell  on  heedless  ears;  and,  except  the  evil 
ones  in  the  gallery,  no  one  laughed  and  no  one 
listened,  and  Lester  declared  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  that  he  would  not  go  through  such  an  or 
deal  for  the  receipts  of  an  Actors'  Fund  Benefit. 

Van  Bibber's  partner  caught  him  laughing  at 
Grahame  West's  vain  efforts  to  amuse,  and 
said,  tolerantly,  that  Mr.  West  was  certainly 
comical,  but  that  she  had  a  lady  friend  with 
her  who  could  recite  pieces  which  were  that 
comic  that  you'd  die  of  laughing.  She  pre- 
201 


CINDERELLA 

sented  her  friend  to  Van  Bibber,  and  he  said  he 
hoped  that  they  were  going  to  hear  her  recite, 
as  laughing  must  be  a  pleasant  death.  But  the 
young  lady  explained  that  she  had  had  the  mis 
fortune  to  lose  her  only  brother  that  summer, 
and  that  she  had  given  up  everything  but  danc 
ing  in  consequence.  She  said  she  did  not  think 
it  looked  right  to  see  a  girl  in  mourning  recite 
comic  monologues. 

Van  Bibber  struggled  to  be  sympathetic,  and 
asked  what  her  brother  had  died  of.  She  told 
him  that  "he  died  of  a  Thursday,"  and  the 
conversation  came  to  an  embarrassing  pause. 

Van  Bibber's  partner  had  another  friend  in  a 
gray  corduroy  waistcoat  and  tan  shoes,  who  was 
of  Hebraic  appearance.  He  also  wore  several 
very  fine  rings,  and  officiated  with  what  was 
certainly  religious  tolerance  at  the  M.  E.  Bethel 
Church.  She  said  he  was  an  elegant  or — gan — 
ist,  putting  the  emphasis  on  the  second  syllable, 
which  made  Van  Bibber  think  that  she  was 
speaking  of  some  religious  body  to  which  he 
belonged.  But  the  organist  made  his  profession 
clear  by  explaining  that  the  committee  had  just 
invited  him  to  oblige  the  company  with  a  solo 
on  the  piano,  but  that  he  had  been  hitting  the 
champagne  so  hard  that  he  doubted  if  he  could 
tell  the  keys  from  the  pedals,  and  he  added 
that  if  they'd  excuse  him  he  would  go  to  sleep, 

202 


CINDERELLA 

which  he  immediately  cTid  with  his  head  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  lady  recitationist,  who  tactfully 
tried  not  to  notice  that  he  was  there. 

They  were  all  waltzing  again,  and  as  Van 
Bibber  guided  his  partner  for  a  second  time 
around  the  room,  he  noticed  a  particularly 
handsome  girl  in  a  walking-dress,  who  was 
doing  some  sort  of  a  fancy  step  with  a  solemn, 
grave-faced  young  man  in  the  hotel  livery. 
They  seemed  by  their  manner  to  know  each 
other  very  well,  and  they  had  apparently  prac^ 
tised  the  step  that  they  were  doing  often  before. 

The  girl  was  much  taller  than  the  man,  and 
was  superior  to  him  in  every  way.  Her  move 
ments  were  freer  and  less  conscious,  and  she 
carried  her  head  and  shoulders  as  though  she 
had  never  bent  them  above  a  broom.  Her  com 
plexion  was  soft  and  her  hair  of  the  finest,  deep 
est  auburn.  Among  all  the  girls  upon  the  floor 
she  was  the  most  remarkable,  even  if  her  danc 
ing  had  not  immediately  distinguished  her. 

The  step  which  she  and  her  partner  were  ex- 
hibiting  was  one  that  probably  had  been  taught 
her  by  a  professor  of  dancing  at  some  East  Side 
academy,  at  the  rate  of  fifty  cents  per  hour, 
and  which  she  no  doubt  believed  was  the  latest 
step  danced  in  the  gilded  halls  of  the  Few 
Hundred.  In  this  waltz  the  two  dancers  held 
each  other's  hands,  and  the  man  swung  his 

203 


CINDERELLA 

partner  behind  him,  and  then  would  turn  and 
take  up  the  step  with  her  where  they  had 
dropped  it;  or  they  swung  around  and  around 
each  other  several  times,  as  people  do  in  fancy 
skating,  and  sometimes  he  spun  her  so  quickly 
one  way  that  the  skirt  of  her  walking-dress  was 
wound  as  tightly  around  her  legs  and  ankles  as 
a  cord  around  a  top,  and  then  as  he  swung  her 
in  the  opposite  direction,  it  unwound  again,  and 
wrapped  about  her  from  the  other  side.  They 
varied  this  when  it  pleased  them  with  balanc 
ings  and  steps  and  posturings  that  were  not 
sufficiently  extravagant  to  bring  any  comment 
from  the  other  dancers,  but  which  were  so  full 
of  grace  and  feeling  for  time  and  rhythm,  that 
Van  Bibber  continually  reversed  his  partner  so 
that  he  might  not  for  an  instant  lose  sight  of  the 
girl  with  auburn  hair. 

"She  is  a  very  remarkable  dancer,"  he  said 
at  last,   apologetically.     "Do  you  know  who 
she  is?" 

His  partner  had  observed  his  interest  with  in 
creasing  disapproval,  and  she  smiled  trium 
phantly  now  at  the  chance  that  his  question 
gave  her. 

"She  is  the  seventh-floor  chambermaid,"  she 
said.  "I,"  she  added  in  a  tone  which  marked 
the  social  superiority,  "am  a  checker  and 
marker." 

204 


CINDERELLA 

"Really?"  said  Van  Bibber,  with  a  polite 
accent  of  proper  awe. 

He  decided  that  he  must  see  more  of  this  Cin 
derella  of  the  Hotel  Salisbury;  and  dropping  his 
partner  by  the  side  of  the  lady  recitationist,  he 
bowed  his  thanks  and  hurried  to  the  gallery  for 
a  better  view. 

When  he  reached  it  he  found  his  professional 
friends  hanging  over  the  railing,  watching  every 
movement  which  the  girl  made  with  an  intense 
and  unaffected  interest. 

"Have  you  noticed  that  girl  with  red  hair?" 
he  asked,  as  he  pulled  up  a  chair  beside  them. 

But  they  only  nodded  and  kept  their  eyes 
fastened  on  the  opening  in  the  crowd  through 
which  she  had  disappeared. 

"There  she  is!"  Grahame  West  cried,  ex 
citedly,  as  the  girl  swept  out  from  the  mass  of 
dancers  into  the  clear  space.  "Now  you  can 
see  what  I  mean,  Celestine,"  he  said.  "Where 
he  turns  her  like  that.  We  could  do  it  in  the 
shadow-dance  in  the  second  act.  It's  very 
pretty.  She  lets  go  his  right  hand  and  then  he 
swings  her  and  balances  backward  until  she  takes 
up  the  step  again,  when  she  faces  him.  It  is  very 
simple  and  very  effective.  Isn't  it,  George?" 

Lester  nodded  and  said,  "Yes,  very.  She's  a 
born  dancer.  You  can  teach  people  steps,  but 
you  can't  teach  them  to  be  graceful." 

205 


CINDERELLA 

"She  reminds  me  of  Sylvia  Grey,"  said  Miss 
Chamberlain.  "There's  nothing  violent  about 
it,  or  faked,  is  there?  It's  just  the  poetry  of 
motion,  without  any  tricks." 

Lester,  who  was  a  trick-dancer  himself,  and 
Grahame  West,  who  was  one  of  the  best  eccentric 
dancers  in  England,  assented  to  this  cheerfully. 

Van  Bibber  listened  to  the  comments  of  the 
authorities  and  smiled  grimly.  The  contrast 
which  their  lives  presented  to  that  of  the  young 
girl  whom  they  praised  so  highly,  struck  him  as 
being  most  interesting.  Here  were  two  men 
who  had  made  comic  dances  a  profound  and 
serious  study,  and  the  two  women  who  had 
lifted  dancing  to  the  plane  of  a  fine  art,  all 
envying  and  complimenting  a  girl  who  was 
doing  for  her  own  pleasure  that  which  was  to 
them  hard  work  and  a  livelihood.  But  while 
they  were  going  back  the  next  day  to  be  ap 
plauded  and  petted  and  praised  by  a  friendly 
public,  she  was  to  fly  like  Cinderella,  to  take 
up  her  sweeping  and  dusting  and  the  making 
of  beds,  and  the  answering  of  peremptory  sum 
monses  from  electric  buttons. 

"A  good  teacher  could  make  her  worth  one 
hundred  dollars  a  week  in  six  lessons,"  said 
Lester,  dispassionately.  "I'd  be  willing  to 
make  her  an  offer  myself,  if  I  hadn't  too  many 
dancers  in  the  piece  already." 

206 


CINDERELLA 

"A  hundred  dollars — that's  twenty  pounds," 
said  Mrs.  Grahame  West.  "You  do  pay  such 
prices  over  here !  But  I  quite  agree  that  she  is 
very  graceful;  and  she  is  so  unconscious,  too, 
isn't  she?" 

The  interest  in  Cinderella  ceased  when  the 
waltzing  stopped,  and  the  attention  of  those  in 
the  gallery  was  riveted  with  equal  intensity 
upon  Miss  Chamberlain  and  Travers,  who  had 
faced  each  other  in  a  quadrille,  Miss  Chamber- 
Iain  having  accepted  the  assistant  barkeeper  for 
a  partner,  while  Travers  contented  himself  with 
a  tall,  elderly  female,  who  in  business  hours 
had  entire  charge  of  the  linen  department.  The 
barkeeper  was  a  melancholy  man  with  a  dyed 
mustache,  and  when  he  asked  the  English 
dancer  from  what  hotel  she  came,  and  she, 
thinking  he  meant  at  what  hotel  was  she  stop 
ping,  told  him,  he  said  that  that  was  a  slow 
place,  and  that  if  she  would  let  him  know  when 
she  had  her  night  off,  he  would  be  pleased  to 
meet  her  at  the  Twenty-third  Street  station  of 
the  Sixth  Avenue  road  on  the  up-town  side,  and 
would  take  her  to  the  theatre,  for  which,  he  ex 
plained,  he  was  able  to  obtain  tickets  for  noth 
ing,  as  so  many  men  gave  him  their  return 
checks  for  drinks. 

Miss  Chamberlain  told  him  in  return  that  she 
just  doted  on  the  theatre,  and  promised  to  meet 

207 


CINDERELLA 

him  the  very  next  evening.  She  sent  him  anon 
ymously  instead  two  seats  in  the  front  row  for 
her  performance.  She  had  much  delight  the 
next  night  in  watching  his  countenance  when, 
after  arriving  somewhat  late  and  cross,  he 
recognized  the  radiant  beauty  on  the  stage  as 
the  young  person  with  whom  he  had  conde 
scended  to  dance. 

When  the  quadrille  was  over  she  introduced 
him  to  Travers,  and  Travers  told  him  he  mixed 
drinks  at  the  Knickerbocker  Club,  and  that  his 
greatest  work  was  a  Van  Bibber  cocktail.  And 
when  the  barkeeper  asked  for  the  recipe  and 
promised  to  "push  it  along,"  Travers  told  him 
he  never  made  it  twice  the  same,  as  it  depended 
entirely  on  his  mood. 

Mrs.  Grahame  West  and  Lester  were  scan 
dalized  at  the  conduct  of  these  two  young  peo 
ple  and  ordered  the  party  home,  and  as  the 
dance  was  growing  somewhat  noisy  and  the 
gentlemen  were  smoking  as  they  danced,  the 
invited  guests  made  their  bows  to  Mr.  Paul  and 
went  out  into  cold,  silent  streets,  followed  by 
the  thanks  and  compliments  of  seven  bare 
headed  and  swaying  committee-men. 

The  next  week  Lester  went  on  the  road  with 
his  comic  opera  company;  the  Grahame  Wests 
sailed  to  England;  Letty  Chamberlain  and  the 
other  "Gee  Gees,"  as  Travers  called  the  Gaiety 

208 


CINDERELLA 

Girls,  departed  for  Chicago,  and  Travers  and 
Van  Bibber  were  left  alone. 

The  annual  ball  was  a  month  in  the  past  when 
Van  Bibber  found  Travers  at  breakfast  at  their 
club,  and  dropped  into  a  chair  beside  him  with 
a  sigh  of  weariness  and  indecision. 

"What's  the  trouble?  Have  some  break 
fast?"  said  Travers,  cheerfully. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  said  Van  Bibber,  gazing  at 
his  friend  doubtfully;  "I  want  to  ask  you  what 
you  think  of  this.  Do  you  remember  that  girl 
at  that  servants'  ball?" 

"Which  girl? — Tall  girl  with  red  hair — did 
fancy  dance?  Yes — why?" 

"Well,  I've  been  thinking  about  her  lately," 
said  Van  Bibber,  "and  what  they  said  of  her 
dancing.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  it's  as  good  as 
they  thought  it  was,  the  girl  ought  to  be  told 
of  it  and  encouraged.  They  evidently  meant 
what  they  said.  It  wasn't  as  though  they  were 
talking  about  her  to  her  relatives  and  had  to 
say  something  pleasant.  Lester  thought  she 
could  make  a  hundred  dollars  a  week  if  she  had 
had  six  lessons.  Well,  six  lessons  wouldn't  cost 
much,  not  more  than  ten  dollars  at  the  most, 
and  a  hundred  a  week  for  an  original  outlay  of 
ten  is  a  good  investment." 

Travers  nodded  his  head  in  assent,  and 
whacked  an  egg  viciously  with  his  spoon. 

209 


CINDERELLA 

"What's  your  scheme?"  he  said.  "Is  your 
idea  to  help  the  lady  for  her  own  sake — sort  of 
a  philanthropic  snap — or  as  a  speculation?  We 
might  make  it  pay  as  a  speculation.  You  see 
nobody  knows  about  her  except  you  and  me. 
We  might  form  her  into  a  sort  of  stock  company 
and  teach  her  to  dance,  and  secure  her  engage 
ments  and  then  take  our  commission  out  of  her 
salary.  Is  that  what  you  were  thinking  of 
doing?" 

"No,  that  was  not  my  idea,"  said  Van  Bibber, 
smiling.  "I  hadn't  any  plan.  I  just  thought 
I'd  go  down  to  that  hotel  and  tell  her  that  in  the 
opinion  of  the  four  people  best  qualified  to  know 
what  good  dancing  is,  she  is  a  good  dancer,  and 
then  leave  the  rest  to  her.  She  must  have  some 
friends  or  relations  who  would  help  her  to  make 
a  start.  If  it's  true  that  she  can  make  a  hit 
as  a  dancer,  it  seems  a  pity  that  she  shouldn't 
know  it,  doesn't  it?  If  she  succeeded,  she'd 
make  a  pot  of  money,  and  if  she  failed,  she'd 
be  just  where  she  is  now." 

Travers  considered  this  subject  deeply,  with 
knit  brows. 

"That's  so,"  he  said.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
let's  do.  Let's  go  see  some  of  the  managers  of 
those  continuous  performance  places,  and  tell 
them  we  have  a  dark  horse  that  the  Grahame 
Wests  and  Letty  Chamberlain  herself  and 

210 


CINDERELLA 

George  Lester  think  is  the  coming  dancer  of  the 
age,  and  ask  them  to  give  her  a  chance.  And 
we'll  make  some  sort  of  a  contract  with  them. 
We  ought  to  fix  it  so  that  she  is  to  get  bigger 
money  the  longer  they  keep  her  in  the  bill,  have 
her  salary  on  a  rising  scale.  Come  on,"  he  ex 
claimed,  warming  to  the  idea.  "Let's  go  now. 
What  have  you  got  to  do?" 

"I've  got  nothing  better  to  do  than  just 
that,"  Van  Bibber  declared,  .briskly. 

The  managers  whom  they  interviewed  were 
interested  but  non-committal.  They  agreed 
that  the  girl  must  be  a  remarkable  dancer  in 
deed  to  warrant  such  praise  from  such  authori 
ties,  but  they  wanted  to  see  her  and  judge  for 
themselves,  and  they  asked  to  be  given  her  ad 
dress,  which  the  impresarios  refused  to  disclose. 
But  they  secured  from  the  managers  the  names 
of  several  men  who  taught  fancy  dancing,  and 
who  prepared  aspirants  for  the  vaudeville  stage, 
and  having  obtained  from  them  their  prices  and 
their  opinion  as  to  how  long  a  time  would  be 
required  to  give  the  finishing  touches  to  a  dancer 
already  accomplished  in  the  art,  they  directed 
their  steps  to  the  Hotel  Salisbury. 

"From  the  Seventh  Story  to  the  Stage," 
said    Travers.      "She    will    make    very    good 
newspaper  paragraphs,  won't  she?     'The  New 
American  Dancer,  indorsed  by  Celestine  Ter- 

211 


CINDERELLA 

rell,  Letty  Chamberlain,  and  Cortlandt  Van 
Bibber/  And  we  could  get  her  outside  engage 
ments  to  dance  at  studios  and  evening  parties 
after  her  regular  performance,  couldn't  we?"  he 
continued.  "She  ought  to  ask  from  fifty  to  a 
hundred  dollars  a  night.  With  her  regular 
salary  that  would  average  about  three  hundred 
and  fifty  a  week.  She  is  probably  making  three 
dollars  a  week  now,  and  eats  in  the  servants' 
hall." 

"And  then  we  will  send  her  abroad,"  inter 
rupted  Van  Bibber,  taking  up  the  tale,  "and 
she  will  do  the  music-halls  in  London.  If  she 
plays  three  halls  a  night,  say  one  on  the  Surrey 
Side,  and  Islington,  and  a  smart  West  End  hall 
like  the  Empire  or  the  Alhambra,  at  fifteen 
guineas  a  turn,  that  would  bring  her  in  five  hun 
dred  and  twenty-five  dollars  a  week.  And  then 
she  would  go  to  the  Folies  Bergere  in  Paris,  and 
finally  to  St.  Petersburg  and  Milan,  and  then 
come  back  to  dance  in  the  Grand  Opera  season, 
under  Gus  Harris,  with  a  great  international 
reputation,  and  hung  with  flowers  and  medals 
and  diamond  sunbursts  and  things." 

"Rather,"  said  Travers,  shaking  his  head  en 
thusiastically.  "And  after  that  we  must  invent 
a  new  dance  for  her,  with  colored  lights  and 
mechanical  snaps  and  things,  and  have  it  pat 
ented;  and  finally  she  will  get  her  picture  on 

212 


CINDERELLA 

soda-cracker  boxes  and  cigarette  advertise 
ments,  and  have  a  race-horse  named  after  her, 
and  give  testimonials  for  nerve-tonics  and  soap. 
Does  fame  reach  farther  than  that  ?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  Van  Bibber,  "unless  they 
give  her  name  to  a  new  make  of  bicycle.  We 
must  give  her  a  new  name,  anyway,  and  re- 
christen  her,  whatever  her  name  may  be.  We'll 
call  her  Cinderella — La  Cinderella.  That 
sounds  fine,  doesn't  it,  even  if  it  is  rather  long 
for  the  very  largest  type." 

"  It  isn't  much  longer  than  Carmencita,"  sug 
gested  the  other.  "And  people  who  have  the 
proud  knowledge  of  knowing  her  like  you  and 
me  will  call  her  *  Cinders'  for  short.  And  when 
we  read  of  her  dancing  before  the  Czar  of  AH 
the  Russias,  and  leading  the  ballet  at  the  Grand 
Opera  House  in  Paris,  we'll  say,  'that  is  our 
handiwork,'  and  we  will  feel  that  we  have  not 
lived  in  vain." 

"Seventh  floor,  please,"  said  Van  Bibber  to 
the  elevator-boy. 

The  elevator-boy  was  a  young  man  of  serious 
demeanor,  with  a  smooth-shaven  face  and  a 
square,  determined  jaw.  There  was  something 
about  him  which  seemed  familiar,  but  Van  Bib 
ber  could  not  determine  just  what  it  was.  The 
elevator  stopped  to  allow  some  people  to  leave 

213 


CINDERELLA 

it  at  the  second  floor,  and  as  the  young  man 
shoved  the  door  to  again,  Van  Bibber  asked  him 
if  he  happened  to  know  of  a  chambermaid  with 
red  hair — a  tall  girl  on  the  seventh  floor,  a  girl 
who  danced  very  well. 

The  wire  rope  of  the  elevator  slipped  less  rap 
idly  through  the  hands  of  the  young  man  who 
controlled  it,  and  he  turned  and  fixed  his  eyes 
with  sudden  interest  on  Van  Bibber's  face,  and 
scrutinized  him  and  his  companion  with  serious 
consideration. 

"Yes,  I  know  her — I  know  who  you  mean, 
anyway,"  he  said.  "Why?" 

"Why?"  echoed  Van  Bibber,  raising  his  eyes. 
"We  wish  to  see  her  on  a  matter  of  business. 
Can  you  tell  me  her  name?" 

The  elevator  was  running  so  slowly  now  that 
its  movement  upward  was  barely  perceptible. 

"Her  name's  Annie — Annie  Crehan.  Excuse 
me,"  said  the  young  man,  doubtfully,  "ain't 
you  the  young  fellows  who  came  to  our  ball 
with  that  English  lady,  the  one  that  sung?" 

"Yes,"  Van  Bibber  assented,  pleasantly. 
"We  were  there.  That's  where  I've  seen  you 
before.  You  were  there,  too,  weren't  you?" 

"Me  and  Annie  was  dancing  together  most  all 
the  evening.  I  seen  all  youse  watching  her." 

"Of  course,"  exclaimed  Van  Bibber.  "I  re 
member  you  now.  Oh,  then  you  must  know 

214 


CINDERELLA 

her  quite  well.     Maybe  you  can  help  us.     We 
want  to  put  her  on  the  stage." 

The  elevator  came  to  a  stop  with  an  abrupt 
jerk,  and  the  young  man  shoved  his  hands  be 
hind  him,  and  leaned  back  against  one  of  the 
mirrors  in  its  side. 

"On  the  stage,"  he  repeated.     "Why?" 

Van  Bibber  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
in  some  embarrassment  at  this  peremptory  chal 
lenge.  But  there  was  nothing  in  the  young 
man's  tone  or  manner  that  could  give  offense. 
He  seemed  much  in  earnest,  and  spoke  as 
though  they  must  understand  that  he  had  some 
right  to  question. 

"Why?  Because  of  her  dancing.  She  is  a 
very  remarkable  dancer.  All  of  those  actors 
with  us  that  night  said  so.  You  must  know 
that  yourself  better  than  any  one  else,  since  you 
can  dance  with  her.  She  could  make  quite  a 
fortune  as  a  dancer,  and  we  have  persuaded 
several  managers  to  promise  to  give  her  a  trial. 
And  if  she  needs  money  to  pay  for  lessons,  or 
to  buy  the  proper  dresses  and  slippers  and 
things,  we  are  willing  to  give  it  to  her,  or  to 
lend  it  to  her,-  if  she  would  like  that  better." 

"Why?"  repeated  the  young  man,  immov 
ably.  His  manner  was  not  encouraging. 

"Why — what?"  interrupted  Travers,  with 
growing  impatience. 

215 


CINDERELLA 

"Why  are  you  willing  to  give  her  money? 
You  don't  know  her." 

Van  Bibber  looked  at  Travers,  and  Travers 
smiled  in  some  annoyance.  The  electric  bell 
rang  violently  from  different  floors,  but  the 
young  man  did  not  heed  it.  He  had  halted  the 
elevator  between  two  landings,  and  he  now 
seated  himself  on  the^  velvet  cushions  and 
crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  as  though  for  a 
protracted  debate.  Travers  gazed  about  him  in 
humorous  apprehension,  as  though  alarmed  at 
the  position  in  which  he  found  himself,  hung  as 
it  were  between  the  earth  and  sky. 

"I  swear  I  am  an  unarmed  man,"  he  said,  in 
a  whisper. 

"Our  intentions  are  well  meant,  I  assure  you," 
said  Van  Bibber,  with  an  amused  smile.  "The 
girl  is  working  ten  hours  a  day  for  very  little 
money,  isn't  she?  You  know  she  is,  when  she 
could  make  a  great  deal  of  money  by  working 
half  as  hard.  We  have  some  influence  with 
theatrical  people,  and  we  meant  merely  to  put 
her  in  the  way  of  bettering  her  position,  and  to 
give  her  the  chance  to  do  something  which  she 
can  do  better  than  many  others,  while  almost 
any  one,  I  take  it,  can  sweep  and  make  beds.  If 
she  were  properly  managed,  she  could  become  a 
^reat  dancer,  and  delight  thousands  of  people 
—add  to  the  gayety  of  nations,  as  it  were.  She's 

216 


CINDERELLA 

hardly  doing  that  now,  is  she?  Have  you  any 
objections  to  that?  What  right  have  you  to 
make  objections,  anyway?" 

The  young  man  regarded  the  two  young  gen 
tlemen  before  him  with  a  dogged  countenance, 
but  there  was  now  in  his  eyes  a  look  of  helpless 
ness  and  of  great  disquietude. 

"We're  engaged  to  be  married,  Annie  and 
me,"  he  said.  "That's  it." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Van  Bibber,  "I  beg  your 
pardon.  That's  different.  Well,  in  that  case, 
you  can  help  us  very  much,  if  you  wish.  We 
leave  it  entirely  with  you  !" 

"I  don't  want  that  you  should  leave  it  with 
me,"  said  the  young  man,  harshly.  "I  don't 
want  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Annie  can 
speak  for  herself.  I  knew  it  was  coming  to 
this,"  he  said,  leaning  forward  and  clasping  his 
hands  together,  "or  something  like  this.  I've 
never  felt  dead  sure  of  Annie,  never  once.  I 
always  knew  something  would  happen." 

"Why,  nothing  has  happened,"  said  Van  Bib 
ber,  soothingly.  "You  would  both  benefit  by 
it.  We  would  be  as  willing  to  help  two  as  one. 
You  would  both  be  better  off." 

The  young  man  raised  his  head  and  stared 
at  Van  Bibber  reprovingly. 

"You  know  better  than  that,"  he  said.  "You 
know  what  I'd  look  like.  Of  course  she  could 

217 


CINDERELLA 

make  money  as  a  dancer — I've  known  that  for 
some  time — but  she  hasn't  thought  of  it  yet, 
and  she'd  never  have  thought  of  it  herself.  But 
the  question  isn't  me  or  what  I  want.  It's 
Annie.  Is  she  going  to  be  happier  or  not,  that's 
the  question.  And  I'm  telling  you  that  she 
couldn't  be  any  happier  than  she  is  now.  I 
know  that,  too.  We're  just  as  contented  as 
two  folks  ever  was.  We've  been  saving  for 
three  months,  and  buying  furniture  from  the 
instalment  people,  and  next  month  we  were 
going  to  move  into  a  flat  on  Seventh  Avenue, 
quite  handy  to  the  hotel.  If  she  goes  onto  the 
stage  could  she  be  any  happier?  And  if  you're 
honest  in  saying  you're  thinking  of  the  two  of 
us — I  ask  you  where  would  I  come  in?  I'll  be 
pulling  this  wire  rope  and  she'll  be  all  over  the 
country,  and  her  friends  won't  be  my  friends 
and  her  ways  won't  be  my  ways.  She'll  get 
out  of  reach  of  me  in  a  week,  and  I  won't  be  in 
it.  I'm  not  the  sort  to  go  loafing  round  while 
my  wife  supports  me,  carrying  her  satchel  for 
her.  And  there's  nothing  I  can  do  but  just 
this.  She'd  come  back  here  some  day  and  live 
in  the  front  floor  suite,  and  I'd  pull  her  up  and 
down  in  this  elevator.  That's  what  will  hap 
pen.  Here's  what  you  two  gentlemen  are  do 
ing."  The  young  man  leaned  forward  eagerly. 
"  You're  offering  a  change  to  two  people  that 

218 


CINDERELLA 

are  as  well  off  now  as  they  ever  hope  to  be,  and 
they're  contented.  We  don't  know  nothin' 
better.  Now,  are  you  dead  sure  that  you're 
giving  us  something  better  than  what  we've 
got?  You  can't  make  me  any  happier  than  I 
am,  and  as  far  as  Annie  knows,  up  to  now,  she 
couldn't  be  better  fixed,  and  no  one  could  care 
for  her  more. 

"My  God !  gentlemen,"  he  cried,  desperately, 
"think!  She's  all  I've  got.  There's  lots  of 
dancers,  but  she's  not  a  dancer  to  me,  she's  just 
Annie.  I  don't  want  her  to  delight  the  gayety 
of  nations.  I  want  her  for  myself.  Maybe  I'm 
selfish,  but  I  can't  help  that.  She's  mine,  and 
you're  trying  to  take  her  away  from  me.  Sup 
pose  she  was  your  girl,  and  some  one  was  sneak 
ing  her  away  from  you.  You'd  try  to  stop  it, 
wouldn't  you,  if  she  was  all  you  had?"  He 
stopped  breathlessly  and  stared  alternately  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  young  men  before  him. 
Their  countenances  showed  an  expression  of 
well-bred  concern. 

"It's  for  you  to  judge,"  he  went  on,  helplessly; 
"if  you  want  to  take  the  responsibility,  well  and 
good,  that's  for  you  to  say.  I'm  not  stopping 
you,  but  she's  all  I've  got." 

The  young  man  stopped,  and  there  was  a 
pause  while  he  eyed  them  eagerly.  The  eleva 
tor-bell  rang  out  again  with  vicious  indignation. 

219 


CINDERELLA 

Travers  struck  at  the  toe  of  his  boot  with  his 
stick  and  straightened  his  shoulders. 

"I  think  you're  extremely  selfish,  if  you  ask 
me,"  he  said. 

The  young  man  stood  up  quickly  and  took  his 
elevator-rope  in  both  hands.  "All  right,"  he 
said,  quietly,  "that  settles  it.  I'll  take  you  up 
to  Annie  now,  and  you  can  arrange  it  with  her. 
I'm  not  standing  in  her  way." 

"Hold  on,"  protested  Van  Bibber  and  Travers 
in  a  breath.  "Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry," 
growled  Travers. 

The  young  man  stood  immovable,  with  his 
hands  on  the  wire  and  looking  down  on  them, 
his  face  full  of  doubt  and  distress. 

"I  don't  want  to  stand  in  Annie's  way,"  he 
repeated,  as  though  to  himself.  "I'll  do  what 
ever  you  say.  I'll  take  you  to  the  seventh  floor 
or  I'll  drop  you  to  the  street.  It's  up  to  you, 
gentlemen,"  he  added,  helplessly,  and  turning 
his  back  to  them  threw  his  arm  against  the  wall 
of  the  elevator  and  buried  his  face  upon  it. 

There  was  an  embarrassing  pause,  during 
which  Van  Bibber  scowled  at  himself  in  the  mir 
ror  opposite  as  though  to  ask  it  what  a  man 
who  looked  like  that  should  do  under  such  try 
ing  circumstances. 

He  turned   at  last   and   stared   at  Travers. 

'  Where  ignorance  is  bliss,  it's  folly  to  be  wise," 

220 


CINDERELLA 

he  whispered,  keeping  his  face  toward  his  friend. 
"What  do  you  say?  Personally  I  don't  see 
myself  in  the  part  of  Providence.  It's  the  case 
of  the  poor  man  and  his  one  ewe  Iamb,  isn't  it?" 

"We  don't  want  his  ewe  Iamb,  do  we?" 
growled  Travers.  "It's  a  case  of  the  dog  in  a 
manger,  I  say.  I  thought  we  were  going  to  be 
fairy  godfathers  to  'La  Cinderella." 

"The  lady  seems  to  be  supplied  with  a  most 
determined  godfather  as  it  is,"  returned  Van 
Bibber. 

The  elevator-boy  raised  his  face  and  stared  at 
them  with  haggard  eyes. 

"Well?"  he  begged. 

Van  Bibber  srniled  upon  him  reassuringly, 
with  a  look  partly  of  respect  and  partly  of  pity. 

"You  can  drop  us  to  the  street,"  he  said. 


221 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

THE  mass-meeting  in  the  Madison  Square 
Garden  which  was  to  help  set  Cuba  free  was 
finished,  and  the  people  were  pushing  their  way 
out  of  the  overheated  building  into  the  snow  and 
sleet  of  the  streets.  They  had  been  greatly 
stirred  and  the  spell  of  the  last  speaker  still 
hung  so  heavily  upon  them  that  as  they  pressed 
down  the  long  corridor  they  were  still  speaking 
loudly  in  his  praise. 

A  young  man  moved  eagerly  among  them,  and 
pushed  his  way  to  wherever  a  voice  was  raised 
above  the  rest.  He  strained  forward,  listening 
openly,  as  though  he  tried  to  judge  the  effect  of 
the  meeting  by  the  verdict  of  those  about  him. 

But  the  words  he  overheard  seemed  to  clash 
with  what  he  wished  them  to  be,  and  the  eager 
look  on  his  face  changed  to  one  of  doubt  and  of 
grave  disappointment.  When  he  had  reached 
the  sidewalk  he  stopped  and  stood  looking  back 
alternately  into  the  lighted  hall  and  at  the  hurry 
ing  crowds  which  were  dispersing  rapidly.  He 
made  a  movement  as  though  he  would  recall 
them,  as  though  he  felt  they  were  still  uncon 
vinced,  as  though  there  was  much  still  left  un 
said. 

222 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

A  fat  stranger  halted  at  his  elbow  to  light  his 
cigar,  and  glancing  up  nodded  his  head  approv 
ing^ 

"Fine  speaker,  Senator  Stanton,  ain't  he?" 
he  said. 

The  young  man  answered  eagerly.  "Yes," 
he  assented,  "he  is  a  great  orator,  but  how  could 
he  help  but  speak  well  with  such  a  subject?" 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  have  heard  him  last  No 
vember  at  Tammany  Hall,"  the  fat  stranger  an 
swered.  "He  wasn't  quite  up  to  himself  to 
night.  He  wasn't  so  interested.  Those  Cubans 
are  foreigners,  you  see,  but  you  ought  to  have 
heard  him  last  St.  Patrick's  day  on  Home  Rule 
for  Ireland.  Then  he  was  talking !  That 
speech  made  him  a  United  States  senator,  I 
guess.  I  don't  just  see  how  he  expects  to  win 
out  on  this  Cuba  game.  The  Cubans  haven't 
got  no  votes." 

The  young  man  opened  his  eyes  in  some  be 
wilderment. 

"He  speaks  for  the  good  of  Cuba,  for  the 
sake  of  humanity,"  he  ventured. 

"What?"  inquired  the  fat  stranger.  "Oh, 
yes,  of  course.  Well,  I  must  be  getting  on. 
Good-night,  sir." 

The  stranger  moved  on  his  way,  but  the  young 
man  still  lingered  uncertainly  in  the  snow-swept 
corridor,  shivering  violently  with  the  cold  and 

223 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

stamping  his  feet  for  greater  comfort.  His  face 
was  burned  to  a  deep  red,  which  seemed  to  have 
come  from  some  long  exposure  to  a  tropical  sun, 
but  which  held  no  sign  of  health.  His  cheeks 
were  hollow  and  his  eyes  were  lighted  with  the 
fire  of  fever,  and  from  time  to  time  he  was 
shaken  by  violent  bursts  of  coughing  which 
caused  him  to  reach  toward  one  of  the  pillars 
for  support. 

As  the  last  of  the  lights  went  out  in  the  Gar 
den,  the  speaker  of  the  evening  and  three  of  his 
friends  came  laughing  and  talking  down  the 
long  corridor.  Senator  Stanton  was  a  conspicu 
ous  figure  at  any  time,  and  even  in  those  places , 
where  his  portraits  had  not  penetrated  he  was 
at  once  recognized  as  a  personage.  Something 
in  his  erect  carriage  and  an  unusual  grace  of 
movement,  and  the  power  and  success  in  his 
face,  made  men  turn  to  look  at  him.  He  had 
been  told  that  he  resembled  the  early  portraits 
of  Henry  Clay,  and  he  had  never  quite  for 
gotten  the  coincidence. 

The  senator  was  wrapping  the  collar  of  his 
fur  coat  around  his  throat  and  puffing  content 
edly  at  a  fresh  cigar,  and  as  he  passed,  the  night- 
watchman  and  the  ushers  bowed  to  the  great 
man  and  stood  looking  after  him  with  the  half- 
humorous,  half-envious  deference  that  the  Amer 
ican  voter  pays  to  the  successful  politician.  At 

224 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

the  sidewalk,  the  policemen  hurried  to  open  the 
door  of  his  carriage,  and  in  their  eagerness  made 
a  double  line,  through  which  he  passed  nodding 
to  them  gravely.  The  young  man  who  had 
stood  so  long  in  waiting  pushed  his  way  through 
the  line  to  his  side. 

"Senator  Stanton,"  he  began  timidly,  "might 
I  speak  to  you  a  moment?  My  name  is  Ark- 
wright;  I  am  just  back  from  Cuba,  and  I  want 
to  thank  you  for  your  speech.  I  am  an  Ameri 
can,  and  I  thank  God  that  I  am  since  you  are 
too,  sir.  No  one  has  said  anything  since  the 
war  began  that  compares  with  what  you  said 
to-night.  You  put  it  nobly,  and  I  know,  for 
I've  been  there  for  three  years,  only  I  can't 
make  other  people  understand  it,  and  I  am 
thankful  that  some  one  can.  You'll  forgive  my, 
stopping  you,  sir,  but  I  wanted  to  thank  you. 
I  feel  it  very  much." 

Senator  Stanton's  friends  had  already  seated 
themselves  in  his  carriage  and  were  looking  out 
of  the  door  and  smiling  with  mock  patience. 
But  the  senator  made  no  move  to  follow  them. 
Though  they  were  his  admirers  they  were  some 
times  sceptical,  and  he  was  not  sorry  that  they 
should  hear  this  uninvited  tribute.  So  he  made 
a  pretense  of  buttoning  his  long  coat  about  him, 
and  nodded  encouragingly  to  Arkwright  to  con 
tinue.  "I'm  glad  you  liked  it,  sir,"  he  said 

225 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

with  the  pleasant,  gracious  smile  that  had  won 
him  a  friend  wherever  it  had  won  him  a  vote. 
"It  is  very  satisfactory  to  know  from  one  who 
is  well  informed  on  the  subject  that  what  I 
have  said  is  correct.  The  situation  there  is 
truly  terrible.  You  have  just  returned,  you 
say?  Where  were  you — in  Havana?" 

"No,  in  the  other  provinces,  sir,"  Arkwright 
answered.  "I  have  been  all  over  the  island;  I 
am  a  civil  engineer.  The  truth  has  not  been 
half  told  about  Cuba,  I  assure  you,  sir.  It  is 
massacre  there,  not  war.  It  is  partly  so  through 
ignorance,  but  nevertheless  it  is  massacre.  And 
what  makes  it  worse  is,  that  it  is  the  massacre 
of  the  innocents.  That  is  what  I  liked  best  of 
what  you  said  in  that  great  speech,  the  part 
about  the  women  and  children." 

He  reached  out  his  hands  detainingly,  and 
then  drew  back  as  though  in  apology  for  having 
already  kept  the  great  man  so  long  waiting  in 
the  cold.  "  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  some  of  the 
terrible  things  I  have  seen,"  he  began  again, 
eagerly,  as  Stanton  made  no  movement  to  de 
part.  "They  are  much  worse  than  those  you 
instanced  to-night,  and  you  could  make  so  much 
better  use  of  them  than  any  one  else.  I  have 
seen  starving  women  nursing  dead  babies,  and 
sometimes  starving  babies  sucking  their  dead 
mothers'  breasts;  I  have  seen  men  cut  down  in 

226 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

the  open  roads  and  while  digging  in  the  fields — 
and  two  hundred  women  imprisoned  in  one 
room  without  food  and  eaten  with  smallpox, 
and  huts  burned  while  the  people  in  them 
slept " 

The  young  man  had  been  speaking  impetu 
ously,  but  he  stopped  as  suddenly,  for  the  sen 
ator  was  not  listening  to  him.  He  had  lowered 
his  eyes  and  was  looking  with  a  glance  of  min 
gled  fascination  and  disgust  at  Arkwright's 
hands.  In  his  earnestness  the  young  man  had 
stretched  them  out,  and  as  they  showed  behind 
the  line  of  his  ragged  sleeves  the  others  could 
see,  even  in  the  blurred  light  and  falling  snow, 
that  the  wrists  of  each  hand  were  gashed  and 
cut  in  dark-brown  lines  like  the  skin  of  a  mu 
latto,  and  in  places  were  a  raw  red,  where  the 
fresh  skin  had  but  just  closed  over.  The  young 
man  paused  and  stood  shivering,  still  holding 
his  hands  out  rigidly  before  him. 

The  senator  raised  his  eyes  slowly  and  drew 
away. 

"What  is  that?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
pointing  with  a  gloved  finger  at  the  black  lines 
on  the  wrists. 

A  sergeant  in  the  group  of  policemen  who 
had  closed  around  the  speakers  answered  him 
promptly  from  his  profound  fund  of  professional 
knowledge. 

227 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

" That's  handcuffs,  senator,"  he  said  impor 
tantly,  and  glanced  at  Stanton  as  though  to 
signify  that  at  a  word  from  him  he  would  take 
this  suspicious  character  into  custody.  The 
young  man  pulled  the  frayed  cuffs  of  his  shirt 
over  his  wrists  and  tucked  his  hands,  which  the 
cold  had  frozen  into  an  ashy  blue,  under  his 
armpits  to  warm  them. 

"No,  they  don't  use  handcuffs  in  the  field," 
he  said  in  the  same  low,  eager  tone;  "they  use 
ropes  and  leather  thongs;  they  fastened  me  be 
hind  a  horse,  and  when  he  stumbled  going  down 
the  trail  it  jerked  me  forward  and  the  cords 
would  tighten  and  tear  the  flesh.'  But  they 
have  had  a  long  time  to  heal  now.  I  have  been 
eight  months  in  prison." 

The  young  men  at  the  carriage  window  had 
ceased  smiling  and  were  listening  intently.  One 
of  them  stepped  out  and  stood  beside  the  car 
riage  door  looking  down  at  the  shivering  fig 
ure  before  him  with  a  close  and  curious  scru 
tiny. 

"Eight  months  in  prison!"  echoed  the  police 
sergeant  with  a  note  of  triumph;  "what  did  I 
tell  you?" 

"Hold  your  tongue!"  said  the  young  man  at 
the  carriage  door.  There  was  silence  for  a 
moment,  while  the  men  looked  at  the  senator, 
as  though  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

228 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

"Where  were  you  in  prison,  Mr.  Arkwright?" 
he  asked. 

"First  in  the  calaboose  at  Santa  Clara  for  two 
months,  and  then  in  Cabanas.  The  Cubans 
who  were  taken  when  I  was  were  shot  by  the 
fusillade  on  different  days  during  this  last 
month.  Two  of  them,  the  Ezetas,  were  father 
and  son,  and  the  Volunteer  band  played  all  the 
time  the  execution  was  going  on,  so  that  the 
other  prisoners  might  not  hear  them  cry  'Cuba 
Libre!'  when  the  order  came  to  fire.  But  we 
heard  them." 

The  senator  shivered  slightly  and  pulled  his 
fur  collar  up  farther  around  his  face.  "I'd  like 
to  talk  with  you,"  he  said,  "if  you  have  noth 
ing  to  do  to-morrow.  I'd  like  to  go  into  this 
thing  thoroughly.  Congress  must  be  made  to 
take  some  action." 

The  young  man  clasped  his  hands  eagerly. 
"Ah,  Mr.  Stanton,  if  you  would,"  he  cried,  "if 
you  would  only  give  me  an  hour!  I  could  tell 
you  so  much  that  you  could  use.  And  you  can 
believe  what  I  say,  sir — it  is  not  necessary  to 
lie — God  knows  the  truth  is  bad  enough.  I  can 
give  you  names  and  dates  for  everything  I  say. 
Or  I  can  do  better  than  that,  sir.  I  can  take  you 
there  yourself — in  three  months  I  can  show  you 
all  you  need  to  see,  without  danger  to  you  in  any 
way.  And  they  would  not  know  me,  now  that 

229 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

I  have  grown  a  beard,  and  I  am  a  skeleton  to 
what  I  was.     I  can  speak  the  language  well, 
and  I  know  just  what  you  should  see,  and  then 
you  could  come  back  as  one  speaking  with  au 
thority  and  not  have  to  say,  *I  have  read,'  or 
/have  been  told/  but  you  can  say,  'These  are 
•the  things  I  have  seen' — and  you  could  free 
Cuba." 

The  senator  coughed  and  put  the  question 
aside  for  the  moment  with  a  wave  of  the  hand 
that  held  his  cigar.  "We  will  talk  of  that  to 
morrow  also.  Come  to  lunch  with  me  at  one. 
My  apartments  are  in  the  Berkeley  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  But  aren't  you  afraid  to  go  back 
there?"  he  asked  curiously.  "I  should  think 
you'd  had  enough  of  it.  And  you've  got  a 
touch  of  fever,  haven't  you?"  He  leaned  for 
ward  and  peered  into  the  other's  eyes. 

"It  is  only  the  prison  fever,"  the  young  man 
answered;  "food  and  this  cold  will  drive  that 
out  of  me.  And  I  must  go  back.  There  is  so 
much  to  do  there,"  he  added.  "Ah,  if  I  could 
tell  them,  as  you  can  tell  them,  what  I  feel 
here."  He  struck  his  chest  sharply  with  his 
hand,  and  on  the  instant  fell  into  a  fit  of  cough 
ing  so  violent  that  the  young  man  at  the  car 
riage  door  caught  him  around  the  waist,  and 
one  of  the  policemen  supported  him  from  the 
other  side. 

230 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

"  You  need  a  doctor,"  said  the  senator,  kindly. 
"I'll  ask  mine  to  have  a  look  at  you.  Don't 
forget,  then,  at  one  o'clock  to-morrow.  We  will 
go  into  this  thing  thoroughly."  He  shook  Ark- 
wright  warmly  by  the  hand  and,  stooping, 
stepped  into  the  carriage.  The  young  man 
who  had  stood  at  the  door  followed  him  and 
crowded  back  luxuriously  against  the  cushions. 
The  footman  swung  himself  up  beside  the 
driver,  and  said,  "Up- town  Delmonico's,"  as  he 
wrapped  the  fur  rug  around  his  legs,  and  with  a 
salute  from  the  policemen  and  a  scraping  of  hoofs 
on  the  slippery  asphalt  the  great  man  was  gone. 

"That  poor  fellow  needs  a  doctor,"  he  said  as 
the  carriage  rolled  up  the  avenue,  "and  he 
needs  an  overcoat,  and  he  needs  food.  He  needs 
about  almost  everything,  by  the  looks  of  him." 

But  the  voice  of  the  young  man  in  the  corner 
of  the  carriage  objected  drowsily 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  said,  "it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  had  the  one  thing  needful." 

By  one  o'clock  of  the  day  following,  Senator 
Stanton,  having  read  the  reports  of  his  speech  in 
the  morning  papers,  punctuated  with  "Cheers," 
"Tremendous  enthusiasm"  and  more  "Cheers," 
was  still  in  a  willing  frame  of  mind  toward  Cuba 
and  her  self-appointed  envoy,  young  Mr.  Ark- 
wright. 

Over  night  he  had  had  doubts  but  that  the 
231 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE -TALENT 

young  man's  enthusiasm  would  bore  him  on  the 
morrow,  but  Mr.  Arkwright,  when  he  appeared, 
developed,  on  the  contrary,  a  practical  turn  of 
mind  which  rendered  his  suggestions  both  flat 
tering  and  feasible.  He  was  still  terribly  in 
earnest,  but  he  was  clever  enough  or  serious 
enough  to  see  that  the  motives  which  appealed 
to  him  might  not  have  sufficient  force  to  move 
a  successful  statesman  into  action.  So  he  placed 
before  the  senator  only  those  arguments  and 
reasons  which  he  guessed  were  the  best  adapted 
to  secure  his  interest  and  his  help.  His  proposal 
as  he  set  it  forth  was  simplicity  itself. 

"Here  is  a  map  of  the  island,"  he  said;  "on  it 
I  have  marked  the  places  you  can  visit  in  safety, 
and  where  you  will  meet  the  people  you  ought 
to  see.  If  you  leave  New  York  at  midnight  you 
can  reach  Tampa  on  the  second  day.  From 
Tampa  we  cross  in  another  day  to  Havana. 
There  you  can  visit  the  Americans  imprisoned 
in  Morro  and  Cabanas,  and  in  the  streets  you 
can  see  the  starving  pacificos.  From  Havana  I 
shall  take  you  by  rail  to  Jucaro,  Matanzas, 
Santa  Clara,  and  Cienfuegos.  You  will  not  be 
able  to  see  the  insurgents  in  the  fields — it  is  not 
necessary  that  you  should — but  you  can  visit 
one  of  the  sugar  plantations  and  some  of  the 
insurgent  chiefs  will  run  the  forts  by  night  and 
come  in  to  talk  with  you.  I  will  show  you 

232 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

burning  fields  and  houses,  and  starving  men 
and  women  by  the  thousands,  and  men  and 
women  dying  of  fevers.  You  can  see  Cuban 
prisoners  shot  by  a  firing  squad  and  you  can 
note  how  these  rebels  meet  death.  You  can 
see  all  this  in  three  weeks  and  be  back  in  New 
York  in  a  month,  as  any  one  can  see  it  who 
wishes  to  learn  the  truth.  Why,  English  mem 
bers  of  Parliament  go  all  the  way  to  India  and 
British  Columbia  to  inform  themselves  about 
those  countries,  they  travel  thousands  of  miles, 
but  only  one  member  of  either  of  our  houses  of 
Congress  has  taken  the  trouble  to  cross  these 
eighty  miles  of  water  that  lie  between  us  and 
Cuba.  You  can  either  go  quietly  and  incog 
nito,  as  it  were,  or  you  can  advertise  the  fact  of 
your  going,  which  would  be  better.  And  from 
the  moment  you  start  the  interest  in  your  visit 
will  grow  and  increase  until  there  will  be  no 
topic  discussed  in  any  of  our  papers  except  your 
self,  and  what  you  are  doing  and  what  you 
mean  to  do. 

"By  the  time  you  return  the  people  will  be 
waiting,  ready  and  eager  to  hear  whatever  you 
may  have  to  say.  Your  word  will  be  the  last 
word  for  them.  It  is  not  as  though  you  were 
some  demagogue  seeking  notoriety,  or  a  hotel 
piazza  correspondent  at  Key  West  or  Jackson 
ville.  You  are  the  only  statesman  we  have,  the 

233 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

only  orator  Americans  will  listen  to,  and  I  tell 
you  that  when  you  come  before  them  and  bring 
home  to  them  as  only  you  can  the  horrors  of 
this  war,  you  will  be  the  only  man  in  this  coun 
try.  You  will  be  the  Patrick  Henry  of  Cuba; 
you  can  go  down  to  history  as  the  man  who 
added  the  most  beautiful  island  in  the  seas  to 
the  territory  of  the  United  States,  who  saved 
thousands  of  innocent  children  and  women,  and 
who  dared  to  do  what  no  other  politician  has 
dared  to  do — to  go  and  see  for  himself  and  to 
come  back  and  speak  the  truth.  It  only  means 
a  month  out  of  your  life,  a  month's  trouble  and 
discomfort,  but  with  no  risk.  What  is  a  month 
out  of  a  lifetime,  when  that  month  means  im 
mortality  to  you  and  life  to  thousands?  In  a 
month  you  would  make  a  half  dozen  after- 
dinner  speeches  and  cause  your  friends  to  laugh 
and  applaud.  Why  not  wring  their  hearts  in 
stead,  and  hold  this  thing  up  before  them  as  it 
is,  and  shake  it  in  their  faces?  Show  it  to  them 
in  all  its  horror — bleeding,  diseased,  and  naked, 
an  offense  to  our  humanity,  and  to  our  prated 
love  of  liberty,  and  to  our  God." 

The  young  man  threw  himself  eagerly  for 
ward  and  beat  the  map  with  his  open  palm. 
But  the  senator  sat  apparently  unmoved,  gaz 
ing  thoughtfully  into  the  open  fire,  and  shook 
his  head. 

234 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

While  the  luncheon  was  in  progress  the  young 
gentleman  who  the  night  before  had  left  the 
carriage  and  stood  at  Arkwright's  side  had 
entered  the  room  and  was  listening  intently. 
He  had  invited  himself  to  some  fresh  coffee, 
and  had  then  relapsed  into  an  attentive  silence, 
following  what  the  others  said  with  an  amused 
and  interested  countenance.  Stanton  had  in 
troduced  him  as  Mr.  Livingstone,  and  appeared 
to  take  it  for  granted  that  Arkwright  would 
know  who  he  was.  He  seemed  to  regard  him 
with  a  certain  deference  which  Arkwright  judged 
was  due  to  some  fixed  position  the  young  man 
held,  either  of  social  or  of  political  value. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Stanton  with  consider 
ation,  "that  I  am  prepared  to  advocate  the 
annexation  of  the  island.  It  is  a  serious  prob 
lem." 

"I  am  not  urging  that,"  Arkwright  inter 
rupted  anxiously;  "the  Cubans  themselves  do 
not  agree  as  to  that,  and  in  any  event  it  is  an 
afterthought.  Our  object  now  should  be  to 
prevent  further  bloodshed.  If  you  see  a  man 
beating  a  boy  to  death,  you  first  save  the  boy's1 
life  and  decide  afterward  where  he  is  to  go  to 
school.  If  there  were  any  one  else,  senator," 
Arkwright  continued  earnestly,  "I  would  not 
trouble  you.  But  we  all  know  your  strength 
in  this  country.  You  are  independent  and 

235 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

fearless,  and  men  of  both  parties  listen  to  you. 
Surely,  God  has  given  you  this  great  gift  of 
oratory  (if  you  will  forgive  my  speaking  so)  to 
use  only  in  a  great  cause.  A  grand  organ  in  a 
cathedral  is  placed  there  to  lift  men's  thoughts 
to  high  resolves  and  purposes,  not  to  make 
people  dance.  A  street  organ  can  do  that. 
Now,  here  is  a  cause  worthy  of  your  great  tal 
ents,  worthy  of  a  Daniel  Webster,  of  a  Henry 
Clay." 

The  senator  frowned  at  the  fire  and  shook 
his  head  doubtfully. 

"If  they  knew  what  I  was  down  there  for," 
he  asked,  "wouldn't  they  put  me  in  prison  too?" 

Arkwright  laughed  incredulously. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  said;  "you  would  go 
there  as  a  private  citizen,  as  a  tourist  to  look  on 
and  observe.  Spain  is  not  seeking  complica 
tions  of  that  sort.  She  has  troubles  enough 
without  imprisoning  United  States  senators." 

'Yes;  but  these  fevers  now,"  persisted  Stan- 
ton,  "they're  no  respecter  of  persons,  I  imagine. 
A  United  States  senator  is  not  above  small-pox 
or  cholera." 

Arkwright  shook  his  head  impatiently  and 
sighed. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  make  it  clear  to  one  who  has 
not  been  there,"  he  said.  "These  people  and 
soldiers  are  dying  of  fever  because  they  are 

236 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

forced  to  live  like  pigs, .  and  they  are  already 
sick  with  starvation.  A  healthy  man  like  your 
self  would  be  in  no  more  danger  than  you  would 
be  in  walking  through  the  wards  of  a  New  York 
hospital." 

Senator  Stanton  turned  in  his  arm-chair,  and 
held  up  his  hand  impressively. 

"If  I  were  to  tell  them  the  things  you  have 
told  me,"  he  said  warningly;  "if  I  were  to  say 
I  have  seen  such  things — American  property  in 
flames,  American  interests  ruined,  and  that  five 
times  as  many  women  and  children  have  died  of 
fever  and  starvation  in  three  months  in  Cuba  as 
the  Sultan  has  massacred  in  Armenia  in  three 
years — it  would  mean  war  with  Spain." 

"Well?"  said  Arkwright. 

Stanton  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sank  back 
again  in  his  chair. 

"  It  would  either  mean  war,"  Arkwright  went 
on,  "or  it  might  mean  the  sending  of  the  Red 
Cross  army  to  Cuba.  It  went  to  Constanti 
nople,  five  thousand  miles  away,  to  help  the 
Armenian  Christians — why  has  it  waited  three 
years  to  go  eighty  miles  to  feed  and  clothe  the 
Cuban  women  and  children?  It  is  like  sending 
help  to  a  hungry  peasant  in  Russia  while  a  man 
dies  on  your  door-step." 

"Well,"  said  the  senator,  rising,  "I  will  let 
you  know  to-morrow.  If  it  is  the  right  thing 

237 


to  do,  and  if  I  can  do  it,  of  course  it  must  be 
done.  We  start  from  Tampa,  you  say?  I 
know  the  presidents  of  all  of  those  roads  and 
they'll  probably  give  me  a  private  car  for  the 
trip  down.  Shall  we  take  any  newspaper  men 
with  us,  or  shall  I  wait  until  I  get  back  and  be 
interviewed?  What  do  you  think?" 

"I  would  wait  until  my  return,"  Arkwright 
answered,  his  eyes  glowing  with  the  hope  the 
senator's  words  had  inspired,  "and  then  speak 
to  a  mass-meeting  here  and  in  Boston  and  in 
Chicago.  Three  speeches  will  be  enough.  Be 
fore  you  have  finished  your  last  one  the  Ameri 
can  warships  will  be  in  the  harbor  of  Havana." 

"Ah,  youth,  youth!"  said  the  senator,  smil 
ing  gravely,  "it  is  no  light  responsibility  to 
urge  a  country  into  war." 

"It  is  no  light  responsibility,"  Arkwright  an 
swered,  "to  know  you  have  the  chance  to  save 
the  lives  of  thousands  of  little  children  and  help 
less  women  and  to  let  the  chance  pass." 

"Quite  so,  that  is  quite  true,"  said  the  senator. 
"Well,  good-morning.  I  shall  let  you  know  to 
morrow." 

Young  Livingstone  went  down  in  the  elevator 
with  Arkwright,  and  when  they  had  reached 
the  sidewalk  stood  regarding  him  for  a  moment 
in  silence. 

"You  mustn't  count  too  much  on  Stanton, 
238 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

you  know,'*  he  said  kindly;  "he  has  a  way  of 
disappointing  people." 

"Ah,  he  can  never  disappoint  me,"  Arkwright 
answered  confidently,  "no  matter  how  much  I 
expected.  Besides,  I  have  already  heard  him 
speak." 

"I  don't  mean  that;  I  don't  mean  he  is  disap 
pointing  as  a  speaker.  Stanton  is  a  great  ora 
tor,  I  think.  Most  of  those  Southerners  are, 
and  he's  the  only  real  orator  I  ever  heard.  But 
what  I  mean  is,  that  he  doesn't  go  into  things 
impulsively;  he  first  considers  himself,  and  then 
he  considers  every  other  side  of  the  question 
before  he  commits  himself  to  it.  Before  he 
launches  out  on  a  popular'wave  he  tries  to  find 
out  where  it  is  going  to  land  him.  He  likes  the 
sort  of  popular  wave  that  carries  him  along  with 
it  where  every  one  can  see  him;  he  doesn't  fancy 
being  hurled  up  on  the  beach  with  his  mouth 
full  of  sand." 

"You  are  saying  that  he  is  selfish,  self-seek 
ing?"  Arkwright  demanded,  with  a  challenge 
in  his  voice.  "I  thought  you  were  his  friend." 

"Yes,  he  is  selfish,  and,  yes,  I  am  his  friend," 
the  young  man  answered,  smiling;  "at  least,  he 
seems  willing  to  be  mine.  I  am  saying  nothing 
against  him  that  I  have  not  said  to  him.  If 
you'll  come  back  with  me  up  the  elevator  I'll 
tell  him  he's  a  self-seeker  and  selfish,  and  with 

239 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

no  thought  above  his  own  interests.  He  won't 
mind.  He'd  say  I  cannot  comprehend  his  mo 
tives.  Why,  you've  only  to  look  at  his  record. 
When  the  Venezuelan  message  came  out  he 
attacked  the  President  and  declared  he  was 
trying  to  make  political  capital  and  to  drag  us 
into  war,  and  that  what  we  wanted  was  arbitra 
tion;  but  when  the  President  brought  out  the 
Arbitration  Treaty  he  attacked  that  too  in  the 
Senate  and  destroyed  it.  Why?  Not  because 
he  had  convictions,  but  because  the  President 
had  refused  a  foreign  appointment  to  a  friend 
of  his  in  the  South.  He  has  been  a  free-silver 
man  for  the  last  ten  years,  he  comes  from  a 
free-silver  state,  and  the  members  of  the  legis 
lature  that  elected  him  were  all  for  silver,  but 
this  last  election  his  Wall  Street  friends  got 
hold  of  him  and  worked  on  his  feelings,  and  he 
repudiated  his  party,  his  state,  and  his  con 
stituents,  and  came  out  for  gold." 

"Well,  but  surely,"  Arkwright  objected,  "that 
took  courage?  To  own  that  for  ten  years  you 
had  been  wrong,  and  to  come  out  for  the  right 
at  the  last." 

Livingstone  stared  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  It's  all  a  question  of  motives,"  he  said  indiffer 
ently.  "I  don't  want  to  shatter  your  idol;  I 
only  want  to  save  you  from  counting  too  much 
on  him." 

240 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

When  Arkwright  called  on  the  morrow  Senator 
Stanton  was  not  at  home,  and  the  day  following 
he  was  busy,  and  could  give  him  only  a  brief 
interview.  There  were  previous  engagements 
and  other  difficulties  in  the  way  of  his  going 
which  he  had  not  foreseen,  he  said,  and  he 
feared  he  should  have  to  postpone  his  visit  to 
Cuba  indefinitely.  He  asked  if  Mr.  Arkwright 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  call  again  within  a  week; 
he  would  then  be  better  able  to  give  him  a 
definite  answer. 

Arkwright  left  the  apartment  with  a  sensation 
of  such  keen  disappointment  that  it  turned  him 
ill  and  dizzy.  He  felt  that  the  great  purpose  of 
his  life  was  being  played  with  and  put  aside. 
But  he  had  not  selfish  resentment  on  his  own 
account;  he  was  only  the  more  determined  to 
persevere.  He  considered  new  arguments  and 
framed  new  appeals;  and  one  moment  blamed 
himself  bitterly  for  having  foolishly  discouraged 
the  statesman  by  too  vivid  pictures  of  the  hor 
rors  he  might  encounter,  and  the  next,  ques 
tioned  if  he  had  not  been  too  practical  and  so 
failed  because  he  had  not  made  the  terrible  need 
of  immediate  help  his  sole  argument.  Every 
hour  wasted  in  delay  meant,  as  he  knew,  the 
sacrifice  of  many  lives,  and  there  were  other, 
more  sordid  and  more  practical,  reasons  for 
speedy  action.  For  his  supply  of  money  was 

241 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

running  low  and  there  was  now  barely  enough 
remaining  to  carry  him  through  the  month  of 
travel  he  had  planned  to  take  at  Stanton's  side. 
What  would  happen  to  him  when  that  momen 
tous  trip  was  over  was  of  no  consequence.  He 
would  have  done  the  work  as  far  as  his  small 
share  in  it  lay,  he  would  have  set  in  motion  a 
great  power  that  was  to  move  Congress  and  the 
people  of  the  United  States  to  action.  If  he 
could  but  do  that,  what  became  of  him  counted 
for  nothing. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  week  his  fears  and  mis 
givings  were  scattered  gloriously,  and  a  single 
line  from  the  senator  set  his  heart  leaping  and 
brought  him  to  his  knees  in  gratitude  and 
thanksgiving.  On  returning  one  afternoon  to 
the  mean  lodging  into  which  he  had  moved  to 
save  his  money,  he  found  a  telegram  from 
Stanton,  and  he  tore  it  open,  trembling  be 
tween  hope  and  fear. 

"  Have  arranged  to  leave  for  Tampa  with  you  Mon 
day,  at  midnight,"  it  read.  "  Call  for  me  at  ten  o'clock 
same  evening. — STANTON." 

Arkwright  read  the  message  three  times. 
There  was  a  heavy,  suffocating  pressure  at  his 
heart  as  though  it  had  ceased  beating.  He  sank 
back  limply  upon  the  edge  of  his  bed  and, 
clutching  the  piece  of  paper  in  his  two  hands, 

242 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

spoke  the  words  aloud  triumphantly,  as  though 
to  assure  himself  that  they  were  true.  Then  a 
flood  of  unspeakable  relief,  of  nappiness  and 
gratitude,  swept  over  him,  and  he  turned  and 
slipped  to  the  floor,  burying  his  face  in  the  pil 
low,  and  wept  out  his  thanks  upon  his  knees. 

A  man  so  deeply  immersed  in  public  affairs  as 
was  Stanton,  and  with  such  a  multiplicity  of 
personal  interests,  could  not  prepare  to  absent 
himself  for  a  month  without  his  intention  be 
coming  known,  and  on  the  day  when  he  was  to 
start  for  Tampa  the  morning  newspapers  pro 
claimed  the  fact  that  he  was  about  to  visit 
Cuba.  They  gave  to  his  mission  all  the  impor 
tance  and  display  that  Arkwright  had  foretold. 
Some  of  the  newspapers  stated  that  he  was 
going  as  a  special  commissioner  of  the  President 
to  study  and  report;  others  that  he  was  acting 
in  behalf  of  the  Cuban  legation  in  Washington 
and  had  plenipotentiary  powers.  Opposition 
organs  suggested  that  he  was  acting  in  the  in 
terests  of  the  sugar  trust,  and  his  own  particu 
lar  organ  declared  that  it  was  his  intention  to 
free  Cuba  at  the  risk  of  his  own  freedom,  safety, 
and  even  life. 

The  Spanish  minister  in  Washington  sent  a 
cable  for  publication  to  Madrid,  stating  that  a 
distinguished  American  statesman  was  about  to 
visit  Cuba,  to  investigate,  and,  later,  to  deny 

243 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

the  truth  of  the  disgraceful  libels  published  con 
cerning  the  Spanish  officials  on  the  island  by 
the  papers  of  the  United  States.  At  the  same 
time  he  cabled  in  cipher  to  the  captain-general 
in  Havana  to  see  that  the  distinguished  states 
man  was  closely  spied  upon  from  the  moment  of 
his  arrival  until  his  departure,  and  to  place  on 
the  "suspect"  list  all  Americans  and  Cubans 
who  ventured  to  give  him  any  information. 

The  afternoon  papers  enlarged  on  the  impor 
tance  of  the  visit  and  on  the  good  that  would 
surely  come  of  it.  They  told  that  Senator 
Stanton  had  refused  to  be  interviewed  or  to 
disclose  the  object  of  his  journey.  But  it  was 
enough,  they  said,  that  some  one  in  authority 
was  at  last  to  seek  out  the  truth,  and  added  that 
no  one  would  be  listened  to  with  greater  respect 
than  would  the  Southern  senator.  On  this  all 
the  editorial  writers  were  agreed.  The  day 
passed  drearily  for  Arkwright.  Early  in  the 
morning  he  packed  his  valise  and  paid  his  land 
lord,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  day  walked 
the  streets  or  sat  in  the  hotel  corridor  waiting 
impatiently  for  each  fresh  edition  of  the  papers. 
In  them  he  read  the  signs  of  the  great  upheaval 
of  popular  feeling  that  was  to  restore  peace  and 
health  and  plenty  to  the  island  for  which  he 
had  given  his  last  three  years  of  energy  and 
life. 

244 


THE   MAN   WITH  ONE  TALENT 

He  was  trembling  with  excitement,  as  well  as 
with  the  cold,  when  at  ten  o'clock  precisely  he 
stood  at  Senator  Stanton's  door.  He  had  for 
gotten  to  eat  his  dinner,  and  the  warmth  of  the 
dimly  lit  hall  and  the  odor  of  rich  food  which 
was  wafted  from  an  inner  room  touched  his 
senses  with  tantalizing  comfort. 

'The  senator  says  you  are  to  come  this  way, 
sir,"  the  servant  directed.  He  took  Arkwright's 
valise  from  his  hand  and  parted  the  heavy  cur- 
tains  that  hid  the  dining-room,  and  Arkwright 
stepped  in  between  them  and  then  stopped  in 
some  embarrassment.  He  found  himself  in  the 
presence  of  a  number  of  gentlemen  seated  at  a 
long  dinner-table,  who  turned  their  heads  as  he 
entered  and  peered  at  him  through  the  smoke 
that  floated  in  light  layers  above  the  white  cloth. 
The  dinner  had  been  served,  but  the  senator's 
guests  still  sat  with  their  chairs  pushed  back 
from  a  table  lighted  by  candles  under  yellow 
shades,  and  covered  with  beautiful  flowers  and 
with  bottles  of  varied  sizes  in  stands  of  quaint 
and  intricate  design.  Senator  Stanton's  tall  fig 
ure  showed  dimly  through  the  smoke,  and  his 
deep  voice  hailed  Arkwright  cheerily  from  the 
farther  end  of  the  room.  "This  way,  Mr.  Ark 
wright,"  he  said.  "I  have  a  chair  waiting 
for  you  here."  He  grasped  Arkwright's  hand 
warmly  and  pulled  him  into  the  vacant  place  at 

245 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

his  side.  An  elderly  gentleman  on  Arkwright's 
other  side  moved  to  make  more  room  for  him 
and  shoved  a  liqueur  glass  toward  him  with  a 
friendly  nod  and  pointed  at  an  open  box  of 
cigars.  He  was  a  fine-looking  man,  and  Ark- 
wright  noticed  that  he  was  regarding  him  with 
a  glance  of  the  keenest  interest.  All  of  those 
at  the  table  were  men  of  twice  Arkwright's  age, 
except  Livingstone,  whom  he  recognized  and 
who  nodded  to  him  pleasantly  and  at  the  same 
time  gave  an  order  to  a  servant,  pointing  at 
Arkwright  as  he  did  so.  Some  of  the  gentlemen 
wore  their  business  suits,  and  one  opposite  Ark 
wright  was  still  in  his  overcoat,  and  held  his 
hat  in  his  hand.  These  latter  seemed  to  have 
arrived  after  the  dinner  had  begun,  for  they 
formed  a  second  line  back  of  those  who  had 
places  at  the  table;  they  all  seemed  to  know  one 
another  and  were  talking  with  much  vivacity 
and  interest. 

Stanton  did  not  attempt  to  introduce  Ark 
wright  to  his  guests  individually,  but  said: 
"Gentlemen,  this  is  Mr.  Arkwright,  of  wrhom  I 
have  been  telling  you,  the  young  gentleman 
who  has  done  such  magnificent  work  for  the 
cause  of  Cuba."  Those  who  caught  Arkwright's 
eye  nodded  to  him,  and  others  raised  their 
glasses  at  him,  but  with  a  smile  that  he  could 
not  understand.  It  was  as  though  they  all 

246 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

knew  something  concerning  him  of  which  he 
was  ignorant.  He  noted  that  the  faces  of  some 
were  strangely  familiar,  and  he  decided  that  he 
must  have  seen  their  portraits  in  the  public 
prints.  After  he  had  introduced  Arkwright,  the 
senator  drew  his  chair  slightly  away  from  him 
and  turned  in  what  seemed  embarrassment  to 
the  man  on  his  other  side.  The  elderly  gentle 
man  next  to  Arkwright  filled  his  glass,  a  servant 
placed  a  small  cup  of  coffee  at  his  elbow,  and 
he  lit  a  cigar  and  looked  about  him. 

"You  must  find  this  weather  very  trying 
after  the  tropics,"  his  neighbor  said. 

Arkwright  assented  cordially.  The  brandy 
was  flowing  through  his  veins  and  warming  him; 
he  forgot  that  he  was  hungry,  and  the  kind,  in 
terested  glances  of  those  about  him  set  him  at 
his  ease.  It  was  a  propitious  start,  he  thought, 
a  pleasant  leave-taking  for  the  senator  and  him 
self,  full  of  good-will  and  good  wishes. 

He  turned  toward  Stanton  and  waited  until 
he  had  ceased  speaking. 

"The  papers  have  begun  well,  haven't  they?" 
he  asked,  eagerly. 

He  had  spoken  in  a  low  voice,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  but  those  about  the  table  seemed  to 
have  heard  him,  for  there  was  silence  instantly, 
and  when  he  glanced  up  he  saw  the  eyes  of  all 
turned  upon  him  and  he  noticed  on  their  faces 

247 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

the  same  smile  he  had  seen  there  when  he 
entered. 

"Yes,"  Stanton  answered  constrainedly. 
"Yes,  I—  *  he  lowered  his  voice,  but  the  silence 
still  continued.  Stanton  had  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  table,  but  now  he  frowned  and  half  rose 
from  his  chair. 

"I  want  to  speak  with  you,  Arkwright,"  he 
said.  "Suppose  we  go  into  the  next  room.  I'll 
be  back  in  a  moment,"  he  added,  nodding  to 
the  others. 

But  the  man  on  his  right  removed  his  cigar 
from  his  lips  and  said  in  an  undertone,  "No, 
sit  down,  stay  where  you  are";  and  the  elderly 
gentleman  at  Arkwright's  side  laid  his  hand  de- 
tainingly  on  his  arm.  "Oh,  you  won't  take 
Mr.  Arkwright  away  from  us,  Stanton?"  he 
asked,  smiling. 

Stanton  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sat  down 
again,  and  there  was  a  moment's  pause.  It  was 
broken  by  the  man  in  the  overcoat,  who  laughed. 

"He's  paying  you  a  compliment,  Mr.  Ark 
wright,"  he  said.  He  pointed  with  his  cigar  to 
the  gentleman  at  Arkwright's  side. 

"I  don't  understand,"  Arkwright  answered, 
doubtfully. 

"It's  a  compliment  to  your  eloquence — he's 
afraid  to  leave  you  alone  with  the  senator. 
Livingstone's  been  telling  us  that  you  are  a 

248 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

better  talker  than  Stanton."  Arkwright  turned 
a  troubled  countenance  toward  the  men  about 
the  table,  and  then  toward  Livingstone,  but 
that  young  man  had  his  eyes  fixed  gravely  on 
the  glasses  before  him  and  did  not  raise  them. 

Arkwright  felt  a  sudden,  unreasonable  fear  of 
the  circle  of  strong-featured,  serene,  and  con 
fident  men  about  him.  They  seemed  to  be 
making  him  the  subject  of  a  jest,  to  be  enjoy 
ing  something  among  themselves  of  which  he 
was  in  ignorance,  but  which  concerned  him 
closely.  He  turned  a  white  face  toward  Stanton. 

"You  don't  mean,"  he  began  piteously,  "that 
— that  you  are  not  going?  Is  that  it — tell  me 
— is  that  what  you  wanted  to  say?" 

Stanton  shifted  in  his  chair  and  muttered 
some  words  between  his  lips,  then  turned  toward 
Arkwright  and  spoke  quite  clearly  and  dis 
tinctly. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Arkwright,"  he  said, 
"but  I  am  afraid  I'll  have  to  disappoint  you. 
Reasons  I  cannot  now  explain  have  arisen  which 
make  my  going  impossible — quite  impossible," 
he  added  firmly — "not  only  now,  but  later,"  he 
went  on  quickly,  as  Arkwright  was  about  to 
interrupt  him. 

Arkwright  made  no  second  attempt  to  speak. 
He  felt  the  muscles  of  his  face  working  and  the 
tears  coming  to  his  eyes,  and  to  hide  his  weak- 

249 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

ness  he  twisted  in  his  chair  and  sat  staring 
ahead  of  him  with  his  back  turned  to  the  table. 
He  heard  Livingstone's  voice  break  the  silence 
with  some  hurried  question,  and  immediately 
his  embarrassment  was  hidden  in  a  murmur  of 
answers  and  the  moving  of  glasses  as  the  men 
shifted  in  their  chairs  and  the  laughter  and 
talk  went  on  as  briskly  as  before.  Arkwright 
saw  a  sideboard  before  him  and  a  servant 
arranging  some  silver  on  one  of  the  shelves. 
He  watched  the  man  do  this  with  a  concen 
trated  interest  as  though  the  dull,  numbed 
feeling  in  his  brain  caught  at  the  trifle  in  order 
to  put  off,  as  long  as  possible,  the  consideration 
of  the  truth. 

And  then  beyond  the  sideboard  and  the  tap 
estry  on  the  wall  above  it,  he  saw  the  sun  shin 
ing  down  upon  the  island  of  Cuba,  he  saw  the 
royal  palms  waving  and  bending,  the  dusty 
columns  of  Spanish  infantry  crawling  along  the 
white  roads  and  leaving  blazing  huts  and  smok 
ing  cane-fields  in  their  wake;  he  saw  skeletons  of 
men  and  women  seeking  for  food  among  the 
refuse  of  the  street;  he  heard  the  order  given 
to  the  firing  squad,  the  splash  of  the  bullets 
as  they  scattered  the  plaster  on  the  prison  wall, 
and  he  saw  a  kneeling  figure  pitch  forward  on 
its  face,  with  a  useless  bandage  tied  across  its 
sightless  eyes. 

250 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

Senator  Stanton  brought  him  back  with  a 
sharp  shake  of  the  shoulder.  He  had  also 
turned  his  back  on  the  others,  and  was  leaning 
forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  He 
spoke  rapidly,  and  in  a  voice  only  slightly  raised 
above  a  whisper. 

"I  am  more  than  sorry,  Arkwright,"  he  said 
earnestly.  :<You  mustn't  blame  me  altogether. 
I  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it  this  afternoon.  I 
wanted  to  go.  I  really  wanted  to  go.  The 
thing  appealed  to  me,  it  touched  me,  it  seemed 
as  if  I  owed  it  to  myself  to  do  it.  But  they 
were  too  many  for  me,"  he  added  with  a  back 
ward  toss  of  his  head  toward  the  men  around  his 
table.  "  If  the  papers  had  not  told  on  me  I  could 
have  got  well  away,"  he  went  on  in  an  eager 
tone,  "but  as  soon  as  they  read  of  it,  they  came 
here  straight  from  their  offices.  You  know  who 
they  are,  don't  you?"  he  asked,  and  even  in 
his  earnestness  there  was  an  added  touch  of 
importance  in  his  tone  as  he  spoke  the  name  of 
his  party's  leader,  of  men  who  stood  promi 
nently  in  Wall  Street  and  who  were  at  the  head 
of  great  trusts. 

"You  see  how  it  is,"  he  said  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders.  "They  have  enormous  interests 
at  stake.  They  said  I  would  drag  them  into 
war,  that  I  would  disturb  values,  that  the  busi 
ness  interests  of  the  country  would  suffer.  I'm 

251 


under  obligations  to  most  of  them,  they  have 
advised  me  in  financial  matters,  and  they 
threatened — they  threatened  to  make  it  un 
pleasant  for  me."  His  voice  hardened  and  he 
drew  in  his  breath  quickly,  and  laughed.  "You 
wouldn't  understand  if  I  -were  to  tell  you.  It's 
rather  involved.  And  after  all,  they  may  be 
right,  agitation  may  be  bad  for  the  country. 
And  your  party  leader  after  all  is  your  party 
leader,  isn't  he,  and  if  he  says  'no'  what  are 
you  to  do?  My  sympathies  are  just  as  keen 
for  these  poor  women  and  children  as  ever,  but 
as  these  men  say,  'charity  begins  at  home,'  and 
we  mustn't  do  anything  to  bring  on  war  prices 
again,  or  to  send  stocks  tumbling  about  our 
heads,  must  we?"  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
again  and  sighed.  "Sympathy  is  an  expensive 
luxury,  I  find,"  he  added. 

Arkwright  rose  stifHy  and  pushed  Stanton 
away  from  him  with  his  hand.  He  moved  like 
a  man  coming  out  of  a  dream. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  like  that,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice.  The  noise  about  the  table  ended  on 
the  instant,  but  Arkwright  did  not  notice  that 
it  had  ceased.  "You  know  I  don't  understand 
that,"  he  went  on;  "what  does  it  matter  to 
me?"  He  put  his  hand  up  to  the  side  of  his 
face  and  held  it  there,  looking  down  at  Stanton. 
He  had  the  dull,  heavy  look  in  his  eyes  of 

252 


"You  are  like  a  ring  of  gamblers  around  a  gaming 
table." 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

a  man  who  has  just  come  through  an  opera 
tion  under  some  heavy  drug.  :'WaII  Street/ 
'trusts,'  'party  leaders,'"  he  repeated,  "what 
are  they  to  me?  The  words  don't  reach  me, 
they  have  lost  their  meaning,  it  is  a  language 
I  have  forgotten,  thank  God!"  he  added.  He 
turned  and  moved  his  eyes  around  the  table, 
scanning  the  faces  of  the  men  before  him. 

''Yes,  you  are  twelve  to  one,"  he  said  at  last, 
still  speaking  dully  and  in  a  low  voice,  as  though 
he  were  talking  to  himself.  "You  have  won  a 
noble  victory,  gentlemen.  I  congratulate  you. 
But  I  do  not  blame  you,  we  are  all  selfish  and 
self-seeking.  I  thought  I  was  working  only 
for  Cuba,  but  I  was  working  for  myself,  just 
as  you  are.  I  wanted  to  feel  that  it  was  I  who 
had  helped  to  bring  relief  to  that  plague-spot, 
that  it  was  through  my  efforts  the  help  had 
come.  Yes,  if  he  had  done  as  I  asked,  I  sup 
pose  I  would  have  taken  the  credit." 

He  swayed  slightly,  and  to  steady  himself 
caught  at  the  back  of  his  chair.  But  at  the 
same  moment  his  eyes  glowed  fiercely  and  he 
held  himself  erect  again.  He  pointed  with  his 
finger  at  the  circle  of  great  men  who  sat  look 
ing  up  at  him  in  curious  silence. 

"  You  are  like  a  ring  of  gamblers  around  a 
gaming  table,"  he  cried  wildly,  "who  see  noth 
ing  but  the  green  cloth  and  the  wheel  and  the 

253 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

piles  of  money  before  them,  who  forget,  in 
watching  the  money  rise  and  fall,  that  outside 
the  sun  is  shining,  that  human  beings  are  sick 
and  suffering,  that  men  are  giving  their  lives 
for  an  idea,  for  a  sentiment,  for  a  flag.  You 
are  the  money-changers  in  the  temple  of  this 
great  republic;  and  the  day  will  come,  I  pray 
to  God,  when  you  will  be  scourged  and  driven 
out  with  whips.  Do  you  think  you  can  form 
combines  and  deals  that  will  cheat  you  into 
heaven?  Can  your  *  trusts'  save  your  souls — is 
'Wall  Street'  the  straight  and  narrow  road  to 
salvation?" 

The  men  about  the  table  leaned  back  and 
stared  at  Arkwright  in  as  great  amazement  as 
though  he  had  violently  attempted  an  assault 
upon  their  pockets,  or  had  suddenly  gone  mad 
in  their  presence.  Some  of  them  frowned,  and 
others  appeared  not  to  have  heard,  and  others 
smiled  grimly  and  waited  for  him  to  continue 
as  though  they  were  spectators  at  a  play. 

The  political  leader  broke  the  silence  with  a 
low  aside  to  Stanton.  "Does  the  gentleman 
belong  to  the  Salvation  Army?"  he  asked. 

Arkwright  whirled  about  and  turned  upon 
him  fiercely. 

"Old  gods  give  way  to  new  gods,"  he  cried. 
"Here  is  your  brother.  I  am  speaking  for  him. 
Do  you  ever  think  of  him?  How  dare  you 

254 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

sneer  at  me?"  he  cried.  "You  can  crack  your 
whip  over  that  man's  head  and  turn  him  from 
what  in  his  heart  and  conscience  he  knows  is 
right;  you  can  crack  your  whip  over  the  men 
who  call  themselves  free-born  American  citizens 
and  who  have  made  you  their  boss — sneer  at 
them  if  you  like,  but  you  have  no  collar  on  my 
neck.  If  you  are  a  leader,  why  don't  you  lead 
your  people  to  what  is  good  and  noble?  Why 
do  you  stop  this  man  in  the  work  God  sent  him 
here  to  do?  You  would  make  a  party  hack  of 
him,  a  political  prostitute,  something  lower 
than  the  woman  who  walks  the  streets.  She 
sells  her  body — this  man  is  selling  his  soul." 

He  turned,  trembling  and  quivering,  and 
shook  his  finger  above  the  upturned  face  of  the 
senator. 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  talents, 
Stanton?"  he  cried.  "What  have  you  done 
with  your  talents?" 

The  man  in  the  overcoat  struck  the  table 
before  him  with  his  fist  so  that  the  glasses  rang. 

"By  God,"  he  laughed,  "I  call  him  a  better 
speaker  than  Stanton !  Livingstone's  right,  he 
is  better  than  Stanton — but  he  lacks  Stanton's 
knack  of  making  himself  popular,"  he  added. 
He  looked  around  the  table  inviting  approba- 
/  tion  with  a  smile,  but  no  one  noticed  him,  nor 
spoke  to  break  the  silence. 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

Arkwright  heard  the  words  dully  and  felt 
that  he  was  being  mocked.  He  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands  and  stood  breathing  bro 
kenly;  his  body  was  still  trembling  with  an  ex 
citement  he  could  not  master. 

Stanton  rose  from  his  chair  and  shook  him 
by  the  shoulder.  "Are  you  mad,  Arkwright?" 
he  cried.  "You  have  no  right  to  insult  my 
guests  or  me.  Be  calm — control  yourself." 

"What  does  it  matter  what  I  say?"  Ark 
wright  went  on  desperately.  "I  am  mad. 
Yes,  that  is  it,  I  am  mad.  They  have  won  and 
I  have  lost,  and  it  drove  me  beside  myself.  I 
counted  on  you.  I  knew  that  no  one  else 
could  let  my  people  go.  But  I'll  not  trouble  you 
again.  I  wish  you  good-night,  sir,  and  good-by. 
If  I  have  been  unjust,  you  must  forget  it." 

He  turned  sharply,  but  Stanton  placed  a  de 
taining  hand  on  his  shoulder.  '*  Wait,"  he 
commanded  querulously;  "where  are  you  going? 
Will  you  still ?" 

Arkwright  bowed  his  head.  "Yes,"  he  an 
swered.  "I  have  but  just  time  now  to  catch 
our  train — my  train,  I  mean." 

He  looked  up  at  Stanton,  and  taking  his 
hand  in  both  of  his,  drew  the  man  toward  him. 
All  the  wildness  and  intolerance  in  his  manner 
had  passed,  and  as  he  raised  his  eyes  they  were 
full  of  a  firm  resolve. 

256 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

"Come,"  he  said,  simply;  "there  is  yet  time. 
Leave  these  people  behind  yoii.  What  can  you 
answer  when  they  ask  what  have  you  done 
with  your  talents?" 

"Good  God,  Arkwright,"  the  senator  ex 
claimed,  angrily,  pulling  his  hand  away;  "don't 
talk  like  a  hymn-book,  and  don't  make  another 
scene.  What  you  ask  is  impossible.  Tell  me 
what  I  can  do  to  help  you  in  any  other  way, 
and- 

"Come,"  repeated  the  young  man,  firmly. 
'The  world  may  judge  you  by  what  you  do  to 
night." 

Stanton  looked  at  the  boy  for  a  brief  moment 
with  a  strained  and  eager  scrutiny,  and  then 
turned  away  abruptly  and  shook  his  head  in 
silence,  and  Arkwright  passed  around  the  tab.e 
and  on  out  of  the  room. 

A  month  later,  as  the  Southern  senator  was 
passing  through  the  reading-room  of  the  Union 
Club,  Livingstone  beckoned  to  him,  and  hand 
ing  him  an  afternoon  paper  pointed  at  a  para 
graph  in  silence.  The  paragraph  was  dated 
Sagua  la  Grande,  and  read: 

"The  body  of  Henry  Arkwright,  an  Ameri 
can  civil  engineer,  was  brought  into  Sagua  to 
day  by  a  Spanish  column.  It  was  found  lying 
in  a  road  three  miles  beyond  the  line  of  forts. 
Arkwright  was  surprised  by  a  guerilla  force 

257 


THE  MAN  WITH  ONE  TALENT 

while  attempting  to  make  his  way  to  the  insur 
gent  camp,  and  on  resisting  was  shot.  The 
body  has  been  handed  over  to  the  American 
consul  for  interment.  It  is  badly  mutilated." 

Stanton  lowered  the  paper  and  stood  staring 
out  of  the  window  at  the  falling  snow  and  the 
cheery  lights  and  bustling  energy  of  the  avenue. 

"Poor  fellow,"  he  said,  "he  wanted  so  much 
to  help  them.  And  he  didn't  accomplish  any 
thing,  did  he?" 

Livingstone  stared  at  the  older  man  and 
laughed  shortly. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "He  died. 
Some  of  us  only  live." 


253 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

MRS.  TREVELYAN,  as  she  took  her  seat,  shot 
a  quick  glance  down  the  length  of  her  table  and 
at  the  arrangement  of  her  guests,  and  tried  to 
learn  if  her  lord  and  master  approved.  But  he 
was  listening  to  something  Lady  Arbuthnot, 
who  sat  on  his  right,  was  saying,  and,  being  a 
man,  failed  to  catch  her  meaning,  and  only 
smiled  unconcernedly  and  cheerfully  back  at 
her.  But  the  wife  of  the  Austrian  Minister, 
who  was  her  very  dearest  friend,  saw  and  ap 
preciated,  and  gave  her  a  quick  little  smile 
over  her  fan,  which  said  that  the  table  was 
perfect,  the  people  most  interesting,  and  that 
she  could  possess  her  soul  in  peace.  So  Mrs. 
Trevelyan  pulled  at  the  tips  of  her  gloves  and 
smiled  upon  her  guests.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  was 
not  used  to  questioning  her  powers,  but  this 
dinner  had  been  almost  impromptu,  and  she 
had  been  in  doubt.  It  was  quite  unnecessary, 
for  her  dinner  carried  with  it  the  added  virtue 
of  being  the  last  of  the  season,  an  encore  to  all 
that  had  gone  before — a  special  number  by  re 
quest  on  the  social  programme.  It  was  not 

259 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

one  of  many  others  stretching  on  for  weeks,  for 
the  summer's  change  and  leisure  began  on  the 
morrow,  and  there  was  nothing  hanging  over 
her  guests  that  they  must  go  on  to  later.  They 
knew  that  their  luggage  stood  ready  locked  and 
strapped  at  home;  they  could  look  before  them 
*  to  the  whole  summer's  pleasure,  and  they  were 
relaxed  and  ready  to  be  pleased,  and  broke 
simultaneously  into  a  low  murmur  of  talk  and 
laughter.  The  windows  of  the  dining-room 
stood  open  from  the  floor,  and  from  the  tiny 
garden  that  surrounded  the  house,  even  in  the 
great  mass  of  stucco  and  brick  of  encircling 
London,  came  the  odor  of  flowers  and  of  fresh 
turf.  A  soft  summer-night  wind  moved  the 
candles  under  their  red  shades;  and  gently  as 
though  they  rose  from  afar,  and  not  only  from 
across  the  top  of  the  high  wall  before  the  house, 
came  the  rumble  of  the  omnibuses  passing  far 
ther  into  the  suburbs,  and  the  occasional  quick 
rush  of  a  hansom  over  the  smooth  asphalt.  It 
was  a  most  delightful  choice  of  people,  gathered 
at  short  notice  and  to  do  honor  to  no  one  in 
particular,  but  to  give  each  a  chance  to  say 
good-by  before  he  or  she  met  the  yacht  at 
Southampton  or  took  the  club  train  to  Hom- 
burg.  They  all  knew  each  other  very  well; 
and  if  there  was  a  guest  of  the  evening,  it  was 
one  of  the  two  Americans — either  Miss  Egerton, 

260 


AN   UNFINISHED  STORY 

the  girl  who  was  to  marry  Lord  Arbuthnot, 
whose  mother  sat  on  Trevelyan's  right,  or  young 
Gordon,  the  explorer,  who  has  just  come  out 
of  Africa.  Miss  Egerton  was  a  most  strikingly 

C?  O    <J 

beautiful  girl,  with  a  strong,  fine  face,  and  an 
earnest,  interested  way  when  she  spoke,  which 
the  English  found  most  attractive.  In  appear 
ance  she  had  been  variously  likened  by  Tre- 
velyan,  who  was  painting  her  portrait,  to  a 
druidess,  a  vestal  virgin,  and  a  Greek  goddess; 
and  Lady  Arbuthnot's  friends,  who  thought  to 
please  the  girl,  assured  her  that  no  one  would 
ever  suppose  her  to  be  an  American — their 
ideas  of  the  American  young  woman  having 
been  gathered  from  those  who  pick  out  tunes 
with  one  finger  on  the  pianos  in  the  public  par 
lors  of  the  Metropole.  Miss  Egerton  was  said 
to  be  intensely  interested  in  her  lover's  career, 
and  was  as  ambitious  for  his  success  in  the 
House  as  he  was  himself.  They  were  both 
very  much  in  love,  and  showed  it  to  others  as 
little  as  people  of  their  class  do.  The  others  at 
the  table  were  General  Sir  Henry  Kent;  Phillips, 
the  novelist;  the  Austrian  Minister  and  his 
young  wife;  and  Trevelyan,  who  painted  por 
traits  for  large  sums  of  money  and  figure  pieces 
for  art;  and  some  simply  fashionable  smart 
people  who  were  good  listeners,  and  who  were 
rather  disappointed  that  the  American  explorer 

261 


AN   UNFINISHED  STORY 

was  no  more  sunburned  than  other  young  men 
who  had  stayed  at  home,  and  who  had  gone  in 
for  tennis  or  yachting. 

The  worst  of  Gordon  was  that  he  made  it  next 
to  impossible  for  one  to  lionize  him.  He  had  been 
back  in  civilization  and  London  only  two  weeks, 
unless  Cairo  and  Shepheard's  Hotel  are  civiliza 
tion,  and  he  had  been  asked  everywhere,  and 
for  the  first  week  had  gone  everywhere.  But 
whenever  his  hostess  looked  for  him,  to  present 
another  and  not  so  recent  a  lion,  he  was  gener 
ally  found  either  humbly  carrying  an  ice  to 
some  neglected  dowager,  or  talking  big  game 
or  international  yachting  or  tailors  to  a  circle 
of  younger  sons  in  the  smoking-room,  just  as 
though  several  hundred  attractive  and  distin 
guished  people  were  not  waiting  to  fling  the 
speeches  they  had  prepared  on  Africa  at  him,  in 
the  drawing-room  above.  He  had  suddenly 
disappeared  during  the  second  week  of  his  stay 
in  London,  which  was  also  the  last  week  of  the 
London  season,  and  managers  of  lecture  tours 
and  publishers  and  lion-hunters,  and  even 
friends  who  cared  for  him  for  himself,  had 
failed  to  find  him  at  his  lodgings.  Trevelyan, 
who  had  known  him  when  he  was  a  travelling 
correspondent  and  artist  for  one  of  the  great 
weeklies,  had  found  him  at  the  club  the  night 
before,  and  had  asked  him  to  his  wife's  im- 

262 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

promptu  dinner,  from  which  he  had  at  first 
begged  off,  but,  on  learning  who  was  to  be 
there,  had  changed  his  mind  and  accepted. 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  was  very  glad  he  had  come;  she 
had  always  spoken  of  him  as  a  nice  boy,  and 
now  that  he  had  become  famous  she  liked  him 
none  the  less,  but  did  not  show  it  before  people 
as  much  as  she  had  been  used  to  do.  She  for 
got  to  ask  him  whether  he  knew  his  beautiful 
compatriot  or  not;  but  she  took  it  for  granted 
that  they  had  met,  if  not  at  home,  at  least  in 
London,  as  they  had  both  been  made  so  much 
of,  and  at  the  same  houses. 

The  dinner  was  well  on  its  way  toward  its 
end,  and  the  women  had  begun  to  talk  across 
the  table,  and  to  exchange  bankers'  addresses, 
and  to  say,  "Be  sure  and  look  us  up  in  Paris," 
and  "When  do  you  expect  to  sail  from  Cowes?" 
They  were  enlivened  and  interested,  and  the 
present  odors  of  the  food  and  flowers  and  wine, 
and  the  sense  of  leisure  before  them,  made  it 
seem  almost  a  pity  that  such  a  well-suited 
gathering  should  have  to  separate  for  even  a 
summer's  pleasure. 

The  Austrian  Minister  was  saying  this  to 
his  hostess,  when  Sir  Henry  Kent,  who  had 
been  talking  across  to  Phillips,  the  novelist, 
leaned  back  in  his  place  and  said,  as  though 
to  challenge  the  attention  of  every  one,  "  I  can't 

263 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

agree  with  you,  Phillips.  I  am  sure  no  one 
else  will." 

"Dear  me,"  complained  Mrs.  Trevelyan, 
plaintively,  "what  have  you  been  saying  now, 
Mr.  Phillips?  He  always  has  such  debatable 
theories,"  she  explained. 

"On  the  contrary,  Mrs.  Trevelyan,"  an 
swered  the  novelist,  "it  is  the  other  way.  It  is 
Sir  Henry  who  is  making  all  the  trouble.  He  is 
attacking  one  of  the  oldest  and  dearest  plati 
tudes  I  know."  He  paused  for  the  general  to 
speak,  but  the  older  man  nodded  his  head  for 
him  to  go  on.  "He  has  just  said  that  fiction 
is  stranger  than  truth,"  continued  the  novelist. 
"He  says  that  I — that  people  who  write  could 
never  interest  people  who  read  if  they  wrote  of 
things  as  they  really  are.  They  select,  he  says 
—they  take  the  critical  moment  in  a  man's  life 
and  the  crises,  and  want  others  to  believe  that 
that  is  what  happens  every  day.  Which  it  is 
not,  so  the  general  says.  He  thinks  that  life  is 
commonplace  and  uneventful — that  is,  unevent 
ful  in  a  picturesque  or  dramatic  way.  He  ad 
mits  that  women's  lives  are  saved  from  drown 
ing,  but  that  they  are  not  saved  by  their  lovers, 
but  by  a  longshoreman  with  a  wife  and  six  chil 
dren,  who  accepts  five  pounds  for  doing  it. 
That's  it,  is  it  not?"  he  asked. 

The  general  nodded  and  smiled.  "What  I 
264 


AN   UNFINISHED  STORY 

said  to  Phillips  was,"  he  explained,  "that  if 
things  were  related  just  as  they  happen,  they 
would  not  be  interesting.  People  do  not  say 
the  dramatic  things  they  say  on  the  stage  or  in 
novels;  in  real  life  they  are  commonplace  or 
sordid— or  disappointing.  I  have  seen  men  die 
on  the  battle-field,  for  instance,  and  they  never 
cried,  'I  die  that  my  country  may  live,'  or  'I 
have  got  my  promotion  at  last';  they  just 
stared  up  at  the  surgeon  and  said,  'Have  I 
got  to  lose  that  arm?'  or  'I  am  killed,  I  think/ 
You  see,  when  men  are  dying  around  you,  and 
horses  are  plunging,  and  the  batteries  are  firing, 
one  doesn't  have  time  to  think  up  the  appro 
priate  remark  for  the  occasion.  I  don't  believe, 
now,  that  Pitt's  last  words  were,  'Roll  up  the 
map  of  Europe.'  A  man  who  could  change  the 
face  of  a  continent  would  not  use  his  dying 
breath  in  making  epigrams.  It  was  one  of  his 
secretaries  or  one  of  the  doctors  who  said  that. 
And  the  man  who  was  capable  of  writing  home, 
'All  is  lost  but  honor,'  was  just  the  sort  of  a 
man  who  would  lose  more  battles  than  he  would 
win.  No;  you,  Phillips,"  said  the  general,  rais 
ing  his  voice  as  he  became  more  confident  and 
conscious  that  he  held  the  centre  of  the  stage, 
"and  you,  Trevelyan,  don't  write  and  paint 
every-day  things  as  they  are.  You  introduce 
something  for  a  contrast  or  for  an  effect;  a  red 

265 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

coat  in  a  landscape  for  the  bit  of  color  you 
want,  when  in  real  life  the  red  coat  would  not 
be  within  miles;  or  you  have  a  band  of  music 
playing  a  popular  air  in  the  street  when  a  mur 
der  is  going  on  inside  the  house.  You  do  it  be 
cause  it  is  effective;  but  it  isn't  true.  Now  Mr. 
Caithness  was  telling  us  the  other  night  at  the 
club,  on  this  very  matter " 

"Oh,  that's  hardly  fair,"  laughed  Trevelyan; 
"you've  rehearsed  all  this  before.  You've  come 
prepared." 

"No,  not  at  all,"  frowned  the  general,  sweep 
ing  on.  "He  said  that  before  he  was  raised  to 
the  bench,  when  he  practised  criminal  law,  he 
had  brought  word  to  a  man  that  he  was  to  be 
reprieved,  and  to  another  that  he  was  to  die. 
Now,  you  know,"  exclaimed  the  general,  with 
a  shrug,  and  appealing  to  the  table,  "how  that 
would  be  done  on  the  stage  or  in  a  novel,  with 
the  prisoner  bound  ready  for  execution,  and  a 
galloping  horse,  and  a  fluttering  piece  of  white 
paper,  and  all  that.  Well,  now,  Caithness  told 
us  that  he  went  into  the  man's  cell  and  said, 
'You  have  been  reprieved,  John,'  or  William, 
or  whatever  the  fellow's  name  was.  And  the 
man  looked  at  him  and  said:  'Is  that  so? 
That's  good — that's  good';  and  that  was  all  he 
said.  And  then,  again,  he  told  one  man  whose 
life  he  had  tried  very  hard  to  save:  'The  Home 

266 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

Secretary  has  refused  to  intercede  for  you.  I 
saw  him  at  his  house  last  night  at  nine  o'clock/ 
And  the  murderer,  instead  of  saying,  *  My  God  ! 
what  will  my  wife  and  children  do?'  looked  at 
him,  and  repeated,  'At  nine  o'clock  last. night!' 
just  as  though  that  were  the  important  part  of 
the  message." 

"Well,  but,  general,"  said  Phillips,  smiling, 
"that's  dramatic  enough  as  it  is,  I  think. 
Why " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  the  general,  quickly  and 
triumphantly.  "But  that  is  not  what  you 
would  have  made  him  say,  is  it?  That's  my 
point." 

" There  was  a  man  told  me  once,"  Lord  Ar- 
buthnot  began,  leisurely— "he  was  a  great 
chum  of  mine,  and  it  illustrates  what  Sir  Henry 
has  said,  I  think — he  was  engaged  to  a  girl,  and 
he  had  a  misunderstanding  or  an  understanding 
with  her  that  opened  both  their  eyes,  at  a  dance, 
and  the  next  afternoon  he  called,  and  they 
talked  it  over  in  the  drawing-room,  with  the 
tea-tray  between  them,  and  agreed  to  end  it. 
On  the  stage  he  would  have  risen  and  said, 
'Well,  the  comedy  is  over,  the  tragedy  begins, 
or  the  curtain  falls;  and  she  would  have  gone 
to  the  piano  and  played  Chopin  sadly  while  he 
made  his  exit.  Instead  of  which  he  got  up  to 
go  without  saying  anything,  and  as  he  rose  he 

267 


AM  IIIOTIMKHED  STORY 

upset  a  cop  and  saucer  on  the  tea-table,  and 
said,  "On,  I  beg  yaw  pardon*;  and  she  said,  "It 
isnn*t  broken";  an3  be  went  out.  You  see,"  the 
young  man.  added!,  sniiiiing,  "there  were  two 
young  people  whose  beaits  were  breaking,  and 
yet  they  talked  of  teacups,  not  because  they 
did  not  feel  but  because  custom  is  too  strong  on 
us  and  too  lunch  for  us.  We  do  not  say  dia- 
things  or  do  tbraliaal  ones.  It  does  not 
interesting  leading,  but  it  is  the  troth." 
Exactly/*  cut  in  the  Austrian 


i.^.~  :  :.  And  then  there  is  the  prerogative  of 
the  author  and  of  Ac  playwijgjht  to  drop  a  cur- 
taiu  mhincver  ne  wants  to,  or  to  put  a  stop  to 
eraxything  by  endmg  the  chapter.  That  isn't 

lair.    Tlat  Bam  advantage  overmature.    When 

i^H^BBUM*'  «flua^  •nkA»wi«z^MV  «M^BiBaM>-  ^pmjpW'  %*a^pw  %fl»    ^inxjiuu^g^   -s^vmftjnu^ 

thing  dreadful  at  the  play,  down  conies  the  cur- 

!»••  OJDDCK.  ^M*"  in^MEV  tiiii*g!B  0t  lever  jxMmt,  or 
the  chapter  ends  widt  a  lot  of  stars,  and  the 
next  page  begins  with  a  dcsniptm  of  a  sun 
set  two  MVC&S  later.  To  be  true,  we  ougjbt  to 
be  told  what  tue  man  wno  is  accused  said  in 
the  reply,  or  what  happened  during  dose  two 
weds  before  the  sunset.  The  author  leafty  has 
no  i^gpl  to  yfcimqup!  cfluy  tiae  cinlM.'al  UDomesnts, 
and  to  shut  out  the  ciimuMHinJarp,  every-day 
life  by  a  sort  of  Eloaiy  closure-  That  is,  if  be 

~.'.    ~.i_    ~-.'  ~    ~..r.~.~. 


AN  UNFENfKHED  STORY 


iJii 

fofly  aiDond  tic  table.      'D:e=    11;     ::t 
fed  called  opon  to  testify?  "  lie  asked. 

"It's  awfol,  isn't  it,  Pfeffl^B,"  laaghed  Tie- 
vdyan,  comfortably,  "to  find  ffia^-  Ac  pbotng- 
rapher  is  the  only  artist,  after  all?  I  fed  very 
go3ty.w 

"You  ou^^t  to,"  pmooanoBd  tne 


.    He  was  veiy  wdi  saiasfifo  wiu. 
sdf  at  baling  held  his  own  against:  these 

"And   I   am   sore  Mr.   Gordon   w53 


agree  wxlA  me,  too,     be  wcul  on,  cui 


witb  a  boir  toward  tbe  younger  man.  "  ~.  t 
has  seen  more  <jf  the  mdd  tban  any  of  us,  and 
be  wffl  tefl  you,  I  am  sure,  tbat  wbat  ba|i|iffffv 
only  suggests  tbe  stay;  it  is  not  «  »iii|iirf  r  in 
itself-  Tbat  it  always  needs  tbe  amber's  toada, 
just  as  tbe  ioo^h  cfianiood  -  *" 

"Oil,  tbantg,  tbaiibg,  general,*'  IgngFifrT  Pb3- 

I!—  5.  "My  feefiogs  are  not  feurt  as  badly  as 
tbat." 

Goidon  bad  been  turning  tbe  stem  of  a  wine 
glass  slowly  between  bis  thumb  and  bis  finger 
waife  Ac  others  were  talking,  and  looking  down 
at  it  qniiing-  Now  be  raised  bis  eyes  as  though 
be  meant  to  speak,  and  then  dropped  them 
again.  "I  am  afraid,  Sir  Henry,9"  be  said, 
"that  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  aH.** 
.:.:>c  v.r.:  hn  ^:i  r. 

-:'~ 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

satisfaction  that  they  had  not  committed  them*- 
selves.  The  Austrian  Minister  tried  to  remem 
ber  what  it  was  he  had  said,  and  whether  it 
was  too  late  to  retreat,  and  the  general  looked 
blankly  at  Gordon,  and  said,  "Indeed?" 

"You  shouldn't  have  called  on  that  last  wit 
ness,  Sir  Henry,"  said  Phillips,  smiling.  "Your 
case  was  very  good  as  it  was." 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  said  Gordon,  seriously, 
"that  the  story  Phillips  will  never  write  is  a 
true  story,  but  he  will  not  write  it  because  peo 
ple  would  say  it  is  impossible,  just  as  you  have 
all  seen  sunsets  sometimes  that  you  knew  would 
be  laughed  at  if  any  one  tried  to  paint  them. 
We  all  know  such  a  story,  something  in  our  own 
lives,  or  in  the  lives  of  our  friends.  Not  ghost 
stories,  or  stories  of  adventure,  but  of  ambitions 
that  come  to  nothing,  of  people  who  were  re 
warded  or  punished  in  this  world  instead  of  in 
the  next,  and  love  stories." 

Phillips  looked  at  the  young  man  keenly  and 
smiled.  "Especially  love  stories,"  he  said. 

Gordon  looked  back  at  him  as  if  he  did  not 
understand. 

"Tell  it,  Gordon,"  said  Mr.  Trevelyan. 

"Yes,"  said  Gordon,  nodding  his  head  in 
assent,  "I  was  thinking  of  a  particular  story. 
It  is  as  complete,  I  think,  and  as  dramatic  as 
any  of  those  we  read.  It  is  about  a  man  I  met 

270 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

in  Africa.  It  is  not  a  long  story,"  he  said, 
looking  around  the  table  tentatively,  "but  it 
ends  badly." 

There  was  a  silence  much  more  appreciated 
than  a  polite  murmur  of  invitation  would  have 
been,  and  the  simply  smart  people  settled  them 
selves  rigidly  to  catch  every  word  for  future 
use.  They  realized  that  this  would  be  a  story 
which  had  not  as  yet  appeared  in  the  newspa 
pers,  and  which  would  not  make  a  part  of 
Gordon's  book.  Mrs.  Trevelyan  smiled  en 
couragingly  upon  her  former  protege;  she  was 
sure  he  was  going  to  do  himself  credit;  but  the 
American  girl  chose  this  chance,  when  all  the 
other  eyes  were  turned  expectantly  toward  the 
explorer,  to  look  at  her  lover. 

"We  were  on  our  return  march  from  Lake 
Tchad  to  the  Mobangi,"  said  Gordon.  "We 
had  been  travelling  over  a  month,  sometimes 
by  water  and  sometimes  through  the  forest,  and 
we  did  not  expect  to  see  any  other  white  men 
besides  those  of  our  own  party  for  several 
months  to  come.  In  the  middle  of  a  jungle 
late  one  afternoon  I  found  this  man  lying  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree.  He  had  been  cut  and  beaten 
and  left  for  dead.  It  was  as  much  of  a  surprise 
to  me,  you  understand,  as  it  would  be  to  you 
if  you  were  driving  through  Trafalgar  Square 
in  a  hansom,  and  an  African  lion  should  spring 

271 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

up  on  your  horses'  haunches.  We  believed  we 
were  the  only  white  men  that  had  ever  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  that  far  south.  Crampel  had 
tried  it,  and  no  one  knows  yet  whether  he  is 
dead  or  alive;  Doctor  Schlemen  had  been  eaten 
by  cannibals,  and  Major  Bethume  had  turned 
back  two  hundred  miles  farther  north;  and  we 
could  no  more  account  for  this  man's  presence 
than  if  he  had  been  dropped  from  the  clouds. 
Lieutenant  Royce,  my  surgeon,  went  to  work  at 
him,  and  we  halted  where  we  were  for  the  night. 
In  about  an  hour  the  man  moved  and  opened 
his  eyes.  He  looked  up  at  us  and  said,  'Thank 
God!'— because  we  were  white,  I  suppose — and 
went  off  into  unconsciousness  again.  When  he 
came  to  the  next  time,  he  asked  Royce,  in  a 
whisper,  how  long  he  had  to  live.  He  wasn't 
the  sort  of  a  man  you  had  to  lie  to  about  a 
thing  like  that,  and  Royce  told  him  he  did  not 
think  he  could  live  for  more  than  an  hour  or 
two.  The  man  moved  his  head  to  show  that 
he  understood,  and  raised  his  hand  to  his  throat 
and  began  pulling  at  his  shirt,  but  the  effort 
sent  him  off  into  a  fainting-fit  again.  I  opened 
his  collar  for  him  as  gently  as  I  could,  and  found 
that  his  fingers  had  clinched  around  a  silver 
necklace  that  he  wore  about  his  neck,  and  from 
which  there  hung  a  gold  locket  shaped  like  a 
heart." 

272 


AN   UNFINISHED  STORY 

Gordon  raised  his  eyes  slowly  from  the  obser 
vation  of  his  finger-tips  as  they  rested  on  the 
edge  of  the  table  before  him  to  those  of  the 
American  girl  who  sat  opposite.  She  had  heard 
his  story  so  far  without  any  show  of  attention, 
and  had  been  watching,  rather  with  a  touch  of 
fondness  in  her  eyer,  the  clever,  earnest  face  of 
Arbuthnot,  who  was  following  Gordon's  story 
with  polite  interest.  But  now,  at  Gordon's 
last  words,  she  turned  her  eyes  to  him  with  a 
look  of  awful  indignation,  which  was  followed, 
when  she  met  his  calmly  polite  look  of  inquiry, 
by  one  of  fear  and  almost  of  entreaty. 

"When  the  man  came  to,"  continued  Gor 
don,  in  the  same  conventional  monotone,  "he 
begged  me  to  take  the  chain  and  locket  to  a  girl 
whom  he  said  I  would  find  either  in  London  or 
in  New  York.  He  gave  me  the  address  of  her 
banker.  He  said:  'Take  it  off  my  neck  before 
you  bury  me;  tell  her  I  wore  it  ever  since  she 
gave  it  to  me.  That  it  has  been  a  charm  and 
loadstone  to  me.  That  when  the  locket  rose 
and  fell  against  my  breast,  it  was  as  if  her  heart 
were  pressing  against  mine  and  answering  the 
beating  and  throbbing  of  the  blood  in  my 


veins.' 


Gordon  paused,  and  returned  to  the  thought 
ful  scrutiny  of  his  finger-tips. 

"The  man  did  not  die,"  he  said,  raising  his 

273 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

head.  "Royce  brought  him  back  into  such 
form  again  that  in  about  a  week  we  were  able  to 
take  him  along  with  us  on  a  litter.  But  he  was 
very  weak,  and  would  lie  for  hours  sleeping 
when  we  rested,  or  mumbling  and  raving  in  a 
fever.  We  learned  from  him  at  odd  times  that 
he  had  been  trying  to  reach  Lake  Tchad,  to  do 
what  we  had  done,  without  any  means  of  doing 
it.  He  had  had  not  more  than  a  couple  of 
dozen  porters  and  a  corporal's  guard  of  Senega 
lese  soldiers.  He  was  the  only  white  man  in 
the  party,  and  his  men  had  turned  on  him,  and 
left  him  as  we  found  him,  carrying  off  with 
them  his  stock  of  provisions  and  arms.  He 
had  undertaken  the  expedition  on  a  promise 
from  the  French  government  to  make  him  gov 
ernor  of  the  territory  he  opened  up  if  he  suc 
ceeded,  but  he  had  had  no  official  help.  If  he 
failed,  he  got  nothing;  if  he  succeeded,  he  did 
so  at  his  own  expense  and  by  his  own  endeavors. 
It  was  only  a  wonder  he  had  been  able  to  get 
as  far  as  he  did.  He  did  not  seem  to  feel  the 
failure  of  his  expedition.  All  that  was  lost  in 
the  happiness  of  getting  back  alive  to  this 
woman  with  whom  he  was  in  love.  He  had 
been  three  days  alone  before  we  found  him,  and 
in  those  three  days,  while  he  waited  for  death, 
he  had  thought  of  nothing  but  that  he  would 
never  see  her  again.  He  had  resigned  himself 

274 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

to  this,  had  given  up  all  hope,  and  our  coming 
seemed  like  a  miracle  to  him.  I  have  read 
about  men  in  love,  I  have  seen  it  on  the  stage, 
I  have  seen  it  in  real  life,  but  I  never  saw  a 
man  so  grateful  to  God  and  so  happy  and  so 
insane  over  a  woman  as  this  man  was.  He 
raved  about  her  when  he  was  feverish,  and  he 
talked  and  talked  to  me  about  her  when  he 
was  in  his  senses.  The  porters  could  not  under 
stand  him,  and  he  found  me  sympathetic,  I 
suppose,  or  else  he  did  not  care,  and  only  wanted 
to  speak  of  her  to  some  one,  and  so  he  told  me 
the  story  over  and  over  again  as  I  walked  be 
side  the  litter,  or  as  we  sat  by  the  fire  at  night. 
She  must  have  been  a  very  remarkable  girl. 
He  had  met  her  first  the  year  before,  on  one 
of  the  Italian  steamers  that  ply  from  New  York 
to  Gibraltar.  She  was  travelling  with  her 
father,  who  was  an  invalid  going  to  Tangier 
for  his  health;  from  Tangier  they  were  to  go 
on  up  to  Nice  and  Cannes,  and  in  the  spring  to 
Paris  and  on  to  London  for  this  season  just 
over.  The  man  was  going  from  Gibraltar  to 
Zanzibar,  and  then  on  into  the  Congo.  They 
had  met  the  first  night  out;  they  had  separated 
thirteen  days  later  at  Gibraltar,  and  in  that 
time  the  girl  had  fallen  in  love  with  him,  and 
had  promised  to  marry  him  if  he  would  let  her, 
for  he  was  very  proud.  He  had  to  be.  He  had 

275 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

absolutely  nothing  to  offer  her.  She  is  very 
well  known  at  home.  I  mean  her  family  is: 
they  have  lived  in  New  York  from  its  first  days, 
and  they  are  very  rich.  The  girl  had  lived  a 
life  as  different  from  his  as  the  life  of  a  girl  in 
society  must  be  from  that  of  a  vagabond.  He 
had  been  an  engineer,  a  newspaper  correspon 
dent,  an  officer  in  a  Chinese  army,  and  had  built 
bridges  in  South  America,  and  led  their  little 
revolutions  there,  and  had  seen  service  on  the 
desert  in  the  French  army  of  Algiers.  He  had 
no  home  or  nationality  even,  for  he  had  left 
America  when  he  was  sixteen;  he  had  no  family, 
had  saved  no  money,  and  was  trusting  every 
thing  to  the  success  of  this  expedition  into  Africa 
to  make  him  known  and  to  give  him  position. 
It  was  the  story  of  Othello  and  Desdemona  over 
again.  His  blackness  lay  from  her  point  of 
view,  or  rather  would  have  Iain  from  the  point 
of  view  of  her  friends,  in  the  fact  that  he  was 
as  helplessly  ineligible  a  young  man  as  a  cow 
boy.  And  he  really  had  lived  a  life  of  which  he 
had  no  great  reason  to  be  proud.  He  had  ex 
isted  entirely  for  excitement,  as  other  men  live 
to  drink  until  they  kill  themselves  by  it;  noth 
ing  he  had  done  had  counted  for  much  except 
his  bridges.  They  are  still  standing.  But  the 
things  he  had  written  are  lost  in  the  columns  of 
the  daily  papers.  The  soldiers  he  had  fought 

276 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

with  knew  him  only  as  a  man  who  cared  more 
for  the  fighting  than  for  what  the  fighting  was 
about,  and  he  had  been  as  ready  to  write  on 
one  side  as  to  fight  on  the  other.  He  was  a 
rolling  stone,  and  had  been  a  rolling  stone  from 
the  time  he  was  sixteen  and  had  run  away  to 
sea,  up  to  the  day  he  had  met  this  girl,  when  he 
was  just  thirty.  Yet  you  can  see  how  such  a 
man  would  attract  a  young,  impressionable  girl, 
who  had  met  only  those  men  whose  actions  are 
bounded  by  the  courts  of  law  or  Wall  Street,  or 
the  younger  set  who  drive  coaches  and  who 
live  the  life  of  the  clubs.  She  had  gone  through 
life  as  some  people  go  through  picture-galleries, 
with  their  catalogues  marked  at  the  best  pic 
tures.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  little  fellows 
whose  work  was  skied,  who  were  trying  to  be 
known,  who  were  not  of  her  world,  but  who 
toiled  and  prayed  and  hoped  to  be  famous. 
This  man  came  into  her  life  suddenly  with  his 
stories  of  adventure  and  strange  people  and 
strange  places,  of  things  done  for  the  love  of 
doing  them  and  not  for  the  reward  or  reputa 
tion,  and  he  bewildered  her  at  first,  I  suppose, 
and  then  fascinated,  and  then  won  her.  You 
can  imagine  how  it  was,  these  two  walking  the 
deck  together  during  the  day,  or  sitting  side  by 
side  when  the  night  came  on,  the  ocean  stretched 
before  them.  The  daring  of  his  present  under- 

277 


AN   UNFINISHED  STORY 

taking,  the  absurd  glamour  that  is  thrown  over 
those  who  have  gone  into  that  strange  country 
from  which  some  travellers  return,  and  the  pic- 
turesqueness  of  his  past  life.  It  is  no  wonder 
the  girl  made  too  much  of  him.  I  do  not  think 
he  knew  what  was  coming.  He  did  not  pose 
before  her.  I  am  quite  sure,  from  what  I  knew 
of  him,  that  he  did  not.  Indeed,  I  believed 
him  when  he  said  that  he  had  fought  against 
the  more  than  interest  she  had  begun  to  show 
for  him.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  women  care 
for,  but  they  had  not  been  of  this  woman's  class 
or  calibre.  It  came  to  him  like  a  sign  from 
the  heavens.  It  was  as  if  a  goddess  had  stooped 
to  him.  He  told  her  when  they  separated  that 
if  he  succeeded — if  he  opened  this  unknown 
country,  if  he  was  rewarded  as  they  had  prom 
ised  to  reward  him — he  might  dare  to  come  to 
her;  and  she  called  him  her  knight-errant,  and 
gave  him  her  chain  and  locket  to  wear,  and  told 
him  whether  he  failed  or  succeeded  it  meant 
nothing  to  her,  and  that  her  life  was  his  while 
it  lasted,  and  her  soul  as  well. 

"I  think,"  Gordon  said,  stopping  abruptly, 
with  an  air  of  careful  consideration,  "that  those 
were  her  words  as  he  repeated  them  to  me." 

He  raised  his  eyes  thoughtfully  toward  the 
face  of  the  girl  opposite,  and  then  glanced  past 
her,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  recall  the  words  the 

2-8 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

man  had  used.  The  fine,  beautiful  face  of  the 
woman  was  white  and  drawn  around  the  lips, 
and  she  gave  a  quick,  appealing  glance  at  her 
hostess,  as  if  she  would  beg  to  be  allowed  to  go. 
But  Mrs.  Trevelyan  and  her  guests  were  watch 
ing  Gordon  or  toying  with  the  things  in  front 
of  them.  The  dinner  had  been  served,  and  not 
even  the  soft  movements  of  the  servants  inter 
rupted  the  young  man's  story. 

"You  can  imagine  a  man,"  Gordon  went  on, 
more  lightly,  "finding  a  hansom  cab  slow  when 
he  is  riding  from  the  station  to  see  the  woman 
he  loves;  but  imagine  this  man  urging  himself 
and  the  rest  of  us  to  hurry  when  we  were  in 
the  heart  of  Africa,  with  six  months'  travel  in 
front  of  us  before  we  could  reach  the  first  limits 
of  civilization.  That  is  what  this  man  did. 
When  he  was  still  on  his  litter  he  used  to  toss 
and  turn,  and  abuse  the  bearers  and  porters  and 
myself  because  we  moved  so  slowly.  When  we 
stopped  for  the  night  he  would  chafe  and  fret  at 
the  delay;  and  when  the  morning  came  he  was 
the  first  to  wake,  if  he  slept  at  all,  and  eager  to 
push  on.  When  at  last  he  was  able  to  walk, 
he  worked  himself  into  a  fever  again,  and  it  was 
only  when  Royce  warned  him  that  he  would 
kill  himself  if  he  kept  on  that  he  submitted  to 
be  carried,  and  forced  himself  to  be  patient. 
And  all  the  time  the  poor  devil  kept  saying  how 

279 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

unworthy  he  was  of  her,  how  miserably  he  had 
wasted  his  years,  how  unfitted  he  was  for  the 
great  happiness  which  had  come  into  his  life. 
I  suppose  every  man  says  that  when  he  is  in 
love;  very  properly,  too;  but  the  worst  of  it 
was,  in  this  man's  case,  that  it  was  so  very  true. 
He  was  unworthy  of  her  in  everything  but  his 
love  for  her.  It  used  to  frighten  me  to  see 
how  much  he  cared.  Well,  we  got  out  of  it  at 
last,  and  reached  Alexandria,  and  saw  white 
faces  once  more  and  heard  women's  voices,  and 
the  strain  and  fear  of  failure  were  over,  and 
we  could  breathe  again.  I  was  quite  ready 
enough  to  push  on  to  London,  but  we  had  to 
wait  a  week  for  the  steamer,  and  during  that 
time  that  man  made  my  life  miserable.  He 
had  done  so  well,  and  would  have  done  so  much 
more  if  he  had  had  my  equipment,  that  I  tried 
to  see  that  he  received  all  the  credit  due  him. 
But  he  would  have  none  of  the  public  recep 
tions,  and  the  audience  with  the  Khedive,  or 
any  of  the  fuss  they  made  over  us.  He  only 
wanted  to  get  back  to  her.  He  spent  the  days 
on  the  quay  watching  them  load  the  steamer, 
and  counting  the  hours  until  she  was  to  sail; 
and  even  at  night  he  would  leave  the  first  bed 
he  had  slept  in  for  six  months,  and  would  come 
into  my  room  and  ask  me  if  I  would  not  sit  up 
and  talk  with  him  until  daylight.  You  see, 

280 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

after  he  had  given  up  all  thought  of  her,  and 
believed  himself  about  to  die  without  seeing  her 
again,  it  made  her  all  the  dearer,  I  suppose, 
and  made  him  all  the  more  fearful  of  losing  her 
again. 

"He  became  very  quiet  as  soon  as  we  were 
"really  under  way,  and  Royce  an  I  hardly  knew 
him  for  the  same  man.  He  would  sit  in  silence 
in  his  steamer-chair  for  hours,  looking  out  at 
the  sea  and  smiling  to  himself,  and  sometimes, 
for  he  was  still  very  weak  and  feverish,  the  tears 
would  come  to  his  eyes  and  run  down  his  cheeks. 
'This  is  the  way  we  would  sit,'  he  said  to  me 
one  night,  'with  the  dark  purple  sky  and  the 
strange  Southern  stars  over  our  heads,  and  the 
rail  of  the  boat  rising  and  sinking  below  the 
line  of  the  horizon.  And  I  can  hear  her  voice, 
and  I  try  to  imagine  she  is  still  sitting  there,  as 
she  did  the  last  night  out,  when  I  held  her  hands 
between  mine."  Gordon  paused  a  moment, 
and  then  went  on  more  slowly:  "I  do  not  know 
whether  it  was  that  the  excitement  of  the  jour 
ney  overland  had  kept  him  up  or  not,  but  as  we 
went  on  he  became  much  weaker  and  slept  more, 
until  Royce  became  anxious  and  alarmed  about 
him.  But  he  did  not  know  it  himself;  he  had 
grown  so  sure  of  his  recovery  then  that  he  did 
not  understand  what  the  weakness  meant.  He 
fell  off  into  long  spells  of  sleep  or  unconscious- 

281 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

ness,  and  woke  only  to  be  fed,  and  would  then 
fall  back  to  sleep  again.  And  in  one  of  these 
spells  of  unconsciousness  he  died.  He  died 
within  two  days  of  land.  He  had  no  home  and 
no  country  and  no  family,  as  I  told  you,  and 
we  buried  him  at  sea.  He  left  nothing  behind 
him,  for  the  very  clothes  he  wore  were  those  we 
had  given  him — nothing  but  the  locket  and  the 
chain  which  he  had  told  me  to  take  from  his 
neck  when  he  died." 

Gordon's  voice  had  grown  very  cold  and 
hard.  He  stopped  and  ran  his  fingers  down 
into  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  little  leather 
bag.  The  people  at  the  table  watched  him  in 
silence  as  he  opened  it  and  took  out  a  dull  silver 
chain  with  a  gold  heart  hanging  from  it. 

*  This  is  it,"  he  said,  gently.  He  leaned 
across  the  table,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  those 
of  the  American  girl,  and  dropped  the  chain 
in  front  of  her.  "Would  you  like  to  see  it?" 
he  said. 

The  rest  moved  curiously  forward  to  look  at 
the  little  heap  of  gold  and  silver  as  it  lay  on  the 
white  cloth.  But  the  girl,  with  her  eyes  half 
closed  and  her  lips  pressed  together,  pushed  it 
on  with  her  hand  to  the  man  who  sat  next  her, 
and  bowed  her  head  slightly,  as  though  it  was 
an  effort  for  her  to  move  at  all.  The  wife  of 
the  Austrian  Minister  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief. 

282 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

"I  should  say  your  story  did  end  badly,  Mr. 
Gordon,"  she  said.  "It  is  terribly  sad,  and  so 
unnecessarily  so/' 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Lady  Arbuthnot, 
thoughtfully — "I  don't  know;  it  seems  to  me  it 
was  better.  As  Mr.  Gordon  says,  the  man  was 
hardly  worthy  of  her.  A  man  should  have 
something  more  to  offer  a  woman  than  love;  it 
is  a  woman's  prerogative  to  be  loved.  Any 
number  of  men  may  love  her;  it  is  nothing  to 
their  credit:  they  cannot  help  themselves." 

"Well,"  said  General  Kent,  "if  all  true  stories 
turn  out  as  badly  as  that  one  does,  I  will  take 
back  what  I  said  against  those  the  story-writers 
tell.  I  prefer  the  ones  Anstey  and  Jerome 
make  up.  I  call  it  a  most  unpleasant  story." 

"But  it  isn't  finished  yet,"  said  Gordon,  as 
he  leaned  over  and  picked  up  the  chain  and 
locket.  " There  is  still  a  little  more." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  said  the  wife  of 
the  Austrian  Minister,  eagerly.  "But  then," 
she  added,  "you  can't  make  it  any  better.  You 
cannot  bring  the  man  back  to  life." 

"No,"  said  Gordon,  "but  I  can  make  it  a 
little  worse." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  said  Phillips,  with  a  story-teller's 
intuition—  "the  girl." 

"The  first  day  I  reached  London  I  went  to 
her  banker's  and  got  her  address,"  continued 

283 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

Gordon.  "And  I  wrote,  saying  I  wanted  to 
see  her,  but  before  I  could  get  an  answer  I  met 
her  the  next  afternoon  at  a  garden-party.  At 
least  I  did  not  meet  her;  she  was  pointed  out  to 
me.  I  saw  a  very  beautiful  girl  surrounded  by 
a  lot  of  men,  and  asked  who  she  was,  and  found 
out  it  was  the  woman  I  had  written  to,  the 
owner  of  the  chain  and  locket;  and  I  was  also 
told  that  her  engagement  had  just  been  an 
nounced  to  a  young  Englishman  of  family  and 
position,  who  had  known  her  only  a  few  months, 
and  with  whom  she  was  very  much  in  love.  So 
you  see,"  he  went  on,  smiling,  "that  it  was 
better  that  he  died,  believing  in  her  and  in  her 
love  for  him.  Mr.  Phillips,  now,  would  have 
let  him  live  to  return  and  find  her  married;  but 
Nature  is  kinder  than  writers  of  fiction,  and 
quite  as  dramatic/' 

Phillips  did  not  reply  to  this,  and  the  general 
only  shook  his  head  doubtfully  and  said  noth 
ing.  So  Mrs.  Trevelyan  looked  at  Lady  Ar- 
buthnot,  and  the  ladies  rose  and  left  the  room. 
When  the  men  had  left  them,  a  young  girl  went 
to  the  piano,  and  the  other  women  seated  them 
selves  to  listen;  but  Miss  Egerton,  saying  that 
it  was  warm,  stepped  out  through  one  of  the 
high  windows  on  to  the  little  balcony  that  over 
hung  the  garden.  It  was  dark  out  there  and 
cool,  and  the  rumbling  of  the  encircling  city 

284 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

sounded  as  distant  and  as  far  off  as  the  reflec 
tion  seemed  that  its  million  lights  threw  up  to 
the  sky  above.  The  girl  leaned  her  face  and 
bare  shoulder  against  the  rough  stone  wall  of 
the  house,  and  pressed  her  hands  together,  with 
her  fingers  locking  and  unlocking  and  her  rings 
cutting  through  her  gloves.  She  was  trembling 
slightly,  and  the  blood  in  her  veins  was  hot  and 
tingling.  She  heard  the  voices  of  the  men  as 
they  entered  the  drawing-room,  the  momentary 
cessation  of  the  music  at  the  piano,  and  its 
renewal,  and  then  a  figure  blocked  the  light 
from  the  window,  and  Gordon  stepped  out  of  it 
and  stood  in  front  of  her  with  the  chain  and 
locket  in  his  hand.  He  held  it  toward  her,  and 
they  faced  each  other  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"Will  you  take  it  now?"  he  said. 

The  girl  raised  her  head,  and  drew  herself  up 
until  she  stood  straight  and  tall  before  him. 

"  Have  you  not  punished  me  enough  ?  "  she 
asked,  in  a  whisper.  "Are  you  not  satisfied? 
Was  it  brave?  Was  it  manly?  Is  that  what 
you  have  learned  among  your  savages — to  tor 
ture  a  woman?"  She  stopped  with  a  quick 
sob  of  pain,  and  pressed  her  hands  against  her 
breast. 

Gordon  observed  her,  curiously,  with  cold 
consideration.  "What  of  the  sufferings  of  the 
man  to  whom  you  gave  this?"  he  asked.  "Why 

285 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

not  consider  him?  What  was  your  bad  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  at  the  table,  with  your  friends 
around  you,  to  the  year  he  suffered  danger 
and  physical  pain  for  you — for  you,  remem 
ber?" 

The  girl  hid  her  face  for  a  moment  in  her 
hands,  and  when  she  lowered  them  again  her 
cheeks  were  wet  and  her  voice  was  changed  and 
softer.  /'They  told  me  he  was  dead,"  she  said. 
"Then  it  was  denied,  and  then  the  French  pa 
pers  told  of  it  again,  and  with  horrible  detail, 
and  how  it  happened." 

Gordon  took  a  step  nearer  her.  "And  does 
your  love  come  and  go  with  the  editions  of  the 
daily  papers?"  he  asked,  fiercely.  "If  they  say 
to-morrow  morning  that  Arbuthnot  is  false  to 
his  principles  or  his  party,  that  he  is  a  bribe 
taker,  a  man  who  sells  his  vote,  will  you  be 
lieve  them  and  stop  loving  him?"  He  gave  a 
sharp  exclamation  of  disdain.  "Or  will  you 
wait,"  he  went  on,  bitterly,  "until  the  Liberal 
organs  have  had  time  to  deny  it?  Is  that  the 
love,  the  life,  and  the  soul  you  promised  the 
man  who — 

There  was  a  soft  step  on  the  floor  of  the 
drawing-room,  and  the  tall  figure  of  young 
Arbuthnot  appeared  in  the  opening  of  the 
window  as  he  looked  doubtfully  out  into  the 
darkness.  Gordon  took  a  step  back  into  the 

286 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

light  of  the  window,  where  he  could  be  seen, 
and  leaned  easily  against  the  railing  of  the  bal 
cony.  His  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  street, 
and  he  noticed  over  the  wall  the  top  of  a  pass 
ing  omnibus  and  the  glow  of  the  men's  pipes 
who  sat  on  it. 

"Miss  Egerton?"  asked  Arbuthnot,  his  eyes 
still  blinded  by  the  lights  of  the  room  he  had 
left.  "Is  she  here?  Oh,  is  that  you?"  he  said, 
as  he  saw  the  movement  of  the  white  dress.  "  I 
was  sent  to  look  for  you,"  he  said.  'They 
were  afraid  something  was  wrong."  He  turned 
to  Gordon,  as  if  in  explanation  of  his  lover-like 
solicitude.  "It  has  been  rather  a  hard  week, 
and  it  has  kept  one  pretty  well  on  the  go  all 
the  time,  and  I  thought  Miss  Egerton  looked 
tired  at  dinner." 

The  moment  he  had  spoken,  the  girl  came 
toward  him  quickly,  and  put  her  arm  inside  of 
his,  and  took  his  hand. 

He  looked  down  at  her  wonderingly  at  this 
show  of  affection,  and  then  drew  her  nearer,  and 
said,  gently,  '"You  are  tired,  aren't  you?  I 
came  to  tell  you  that  Lady  Arbuthnot  is  going. 
She  is  waiting  for  you." 

It  struck  Gordon,  as  they  stood  there,  how 
handsome  they  were  and  how  well  suited. 
They  took  a  step  toward  the  window,  and  then 
the  young  nobleman  turned  and  looked  out  at 

287 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

the  pretty  garden  and  up  at  the  sky,  where  the 
moon  was  struggling  against  the  glare  of  the 
city. 

"  It  is  very  pretty  and  peaceful  out  here,"  he 
said,  "is  it  not?  It  seems  a  pity  to  leave  it. 
Good-night,  Gordon,  and  thank  you  for  your 
story."  He  stopped,  with  one  foot  on  the 
threshold,  and  smiled.  "And  yet,  do  you 
know,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  help  thinking  you 
were  guilty  of  doing  just  what  you  accused 
Phillips  of  doing.  I  somehow  thought  you 
helped  the  true  story  out  a  little.  Now  didn't 
you?  Was  it  all  just  as  you  told  it?  Or  am  I 
wrong?" 

"No,"  Gordon  answered;  "you  are  right.  I 
did  change  it  a  little,  in  one  particular." 

"And  what  was  that,  may  I  ask?"  said  Ar- 
buthnot. 

"The  man  did  not  die,"  Gordon  answered. 

Arbuthnot  gave  a  quick  little  sigh  of  sym 
pathy.  "Poor  devil!"  he  said,  softly;  "poor 
chap!"  He  moved  his  left  hand  over  and 
touched  the  hand  of  the  girl,  as  though  to  re- 
'  assure  himself  of  his  own  good  fortune.  Then 
he  raised  his  eyes  to  Gordon's  with  a  curious, 
puzzled  look  in  them.  "But  then,"  he  said, 
doubtfully,  "if  he  is  not  dead,  how  did  you 
come  to  get  the  chain?" 

The  girl's  arm  within  his  own  moved  slightly, 
288 


AN  UNFINISHED  STORY 

and  her  fingers  tightened  their  hold  upon  his 
hand. 

"Oh,"  said  Gordon,  indifferently,  "it  did  not 
mean  anything  to  him,  you  see,  when  he  found 
he  had  lost  her,  and  it  could  not  mean  anything 
to  her.  It  is  of  no  value.  It  means  nothing 
to  any  one — except,  perhaps,  to  me." 


289 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

THE  "trailer"  for  the  green-goods  men  who 
rented  room  No.  8  in  Case's  tenement  had  had 
no  work  to  do  for  the  last  few  days,  and  was 
cursing  his  luck  in  consequence. 

He  was  entirely  too  young  to  curse,  but  he 
had  never  been  told  so,  and,  indeed,  so  imper 
fect  had  his  training  been  that  he  had  never 
been  told  not  to  do  anything  as  long  as  it 
pleased  him  to  do  it  and  made  existence  any 
more  bearable. 

He  had  been  told  when  he  was  very  young, 
before  the  man  and  woman  who  had  brought 
him  into  the  world  had  separated,  not  to  crawl 
out  on  the  fire-escape,  because  he  might  break 
his  neck,  and  later,  after  his  father  had  walked 
off  Hegelman's  Slip  into  the  East  River  while 
very  drunk,  and  his  mother  had  been  sent  to 
the  penitentiary  for  grand  larceny,  he  had  been 
told  not  to  let  the  police  catch  him  sleeping 
under  the  bridge. 

With  these  two  exceptions  he  had  been  told 
to  do  as  he  pleased,  which  was  the  very  mockery 
of  advice,  as  he  was  just  about  as  well  able  to 
do  as  he  pleased  as  is  any  one  who  has  to  beg 

290 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

or  steal  what  he  eats  and  has  to  sleep  in  hall 
ways  or  over  the  iron  gratings  of  warm  cellars 
and  has  the  officers  of  the  children's  societies 
always  after  him  to  put  him  in  a  "Home"  and 
make  him  be  "good." 

"Snipes,"  as  the  trailer  was  called,  was  deter 
mined  no  one  should  ever  force  him  to  be  good 
if  he  could  possibly  prevent  it.  And  he  cer 
tainly  did  do  a  great  deal  to  prevent  it.  He 
knew  what  having  to  be  good  meant.  Some 
of  the  boys  who  had  escaped  from  the  Home 
had  told  him  all  about  that.  It  meant  wearing 
shoes  and  a  blue  and  white  checkered  apron, 
and  making  cane-bottomed  chairs  all  day,  and 
having  to  wash  yourself  in  a  big  iron  tub  twice 
a  week,  not  to  speak  of  having  to  move  about 
like  machines  whenever  the  lady  teacher  hit  a 
bell.  So  when  the  green-goods  men,  of  whom 
the  genial  Mr.  Alf  Wolfe  was  the  chief,  asked 
Snipes  to  act  as  "trailer"  for  them  at  a  quarter 
of  a  dollar  for  every  victim  he  shadowed,  he 
jumped  at  the  offer  and  was  proud  of  the  posi 
tion. 

If  you  should  happen  to  keep  a  grocery  store 
in  the  country,  or  to  run  the  village  post-office, 
it  is  not  unlikely  that  you  know  what  a  green- 
goods  man  is;  but  in  case  you  don't,  and  have 
only  a  vague  idea  as  to  how  he  lives,  a  para 
graph  of  explanation  must  be  inserted  here  for 

291 


THE  TRAILER   FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

your  particular  benefit.  Green-goods  is  the 
technical  name  for  counterfeit  bills,  and  the 
green-goods  men  send  out  circulars  to  country 
men  all  over  the  United  States,  offering  to  sell 
them  $5,000  worth  of  counterfeit  money  for 
$500,  and  ease  their  conscience  by  explaining  to 
them  that  by  purchasing  these  green  goods 
they  are  hurting  no  one  but  the  Government, 
which  is  quite  able,  with  its  big  surplus,  to 
stand  the  loss.  They  enclose  a  letter  which  is 
to  serve  their  victim  as  a  mark  of  identification 
or  credential  when  he  comes  on  to  purchase. 

The  address  they  give  him  is  in  one  of  the 
many  drug-store  and  cigar-store  post-offices 
which  are  scattered  all  over  New  York,  and 
which  contribute  to  make  vice  and  crime  so 
easy  that  the  evil  they  do  cannot  be  reckoned 
in  souls  lost  or  dollars  stolen.  If  the  letter 
from  the  countryman  strikes  the  dealers  in 
green  goods  as  sincere,  they  appoint  an  inter 
view  with  him  by  mail  in  rooms  they  rent  for 
the  purpose,  and  if  they,  on  meeting  him  there, 
think  he  is  still  in  earnest  and  not  a  detective 
or  officer  in  disguise,  they  appoint  still  another 
interview,  to  be  held  later  in  the  day  in  the 
back  room  of  some  saloon. 

Then  the  countryman  is  watched  throughout 
the  day  from  the  moment  he  leaves  the  first 
meeting-place  until  he  arrives  at  the  saloon. 

292 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

If  anything  in  his  conduct  during  that  time 
leads  the  man  whose  duty  it  is  to  follow  him, 
or  the  "trailer,"  as  the  profession  call  it,  to 
believe  he  is  a  detective,  he  finds  when  he  ar 
rives  at  the  saloon  that  there  is  no  one  to 
receive  him.  But  if  the  trailer  regards  his 
conduct  as  unsuspicious,  he  is  taken  to  another 
saloon,  not  the  one  just  appointed,  which  is, 
perhaps,  a  most  respectable  place,  but  to  the 
thieves'  own  private  little  rendezvous,  where  he 
is  robbed  in  any  of  the  several  different  ways 
best  suited  to  their  purpose. 

Snipes  was  a  very  good  trailer.  He  was  so 
little  that  no  one  ever  noticed  him,  and  he  could 
keep  a  man  in  sight  no  matter  how  big  the 
crowd  was,  or  how  rapidly  it  changed  and 
shifted.  And  he  was  as  patient  as  he  was 
quick,  and  would  wait  for  hours  if  needful,  with 
his  eye  on  a  door,  until  his  man  reissued  into 
the  street  again.  And  if  the  one  he  shadowed 
looked  behind  him  to  see  if  he  was  followed,  or 
dodged  up  and  down  different  streets,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  throw  off  pursuit,  or  despatched 
a  note  or  telegram,  or  stopped  to  speak  to  a 
policeman  or  any  special  officer,  as  a  detective 
might,  who  thought  he  had  his  men  safely  in 
hand,  off  Snipes  would  go  on  a  run,  to  where  Alf 
Wolfe  was  waiting,  and  tell  what  he  had  seen. 

Then  Wolfe  would   give   him   a   quarter  or 

293 


THE  TRAILER   FOR  ROOM  NO.   8 

more,  and  the  trailer  would  go  back  to  his  post 
opposite  Case's  tenement,  and  wait  for  another 
victim  to  issue  forth,  and  for  the  signal  from 
No.  8  to  follow  him.  It  was  not  much  fun,  and 
"customers,"  as  Mr.  Wolfe  always  called  them, 
had  been  scarce,  and  Mr.  Wolfe,  in  consequence, 
had  been  cross  and  nasty  in  his  temper,  and 
had  batted  Snipe  out  of  the  way  on  more  than 
one  occasion.  So  the  trailer  was  feeling  blue 
and  disconsolate,  and  wondered  how  it  was 
that  "Naseby"  Raegen,  "Rags"  Raegen's 
younger  brother,  had  had  the  luck  to  get  a  two 
weeks'  visit  to  the  country  with  the  Fresh  Air 
Fund  children,  while  he  had  not. 

He  supposed  it  was  because  Naseby  had  sold 
papers,  and  wore  shoes,  and  went  to  night 
school,  and  did  many  other  things  equally  ob 
jectionable.  Still,  what  Naseby  had  said  about 
the  country,  and  riding  horseback,  and  the  fish 
ing,  and  the  shooting  crows  with  no  cops  to 
stop  you,  and  watermelons  for  nothing,  had 
sounded  wonderfully  attractive  and  quite  im 
probable,  except  that  it  was  one  of  Naseby's 
peculiarly  sneaking  ways  to  tell  the  truth. 
Anyway,  Naseby  had  left  Cherry  Street  for 
good,  and  had  gone  back  to  the  country  to 
work  there.  This  all  helped  to  make  Snipes 
morose,  and  it  was  with  a  cynical  smile  of  satis 
faction  that  he  watched  an  old  countryman 

294 


THE  TRAILER   FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

coming  slowly  up  the  street,  and  asking  his  way 
timidly  of  the  Italians  to  Case's  tenement. 

The  countryman  looked  up  and  about  him  in 
evident  bewilderment  and  anxiety.  He  glanced 
hesitatingly  across  at  the  boy  leaning  against 
the  wall  of  a  saloon,  but  the  boy  was  watching 
two  sparrows  fighting  in  the  dirt  of  the  street, 
and  did  not  see  him.  At  least,  it  did  not  look 
as  if  he  saw  him.  Then  the  old  man  knocked 
on  the  door  of  Case's  tenement.  No  one  came, 
for  the  people  in  the  house  had  learned  to  leave 
inquiring  countrymen  to  the  gentleman  who 
rented  room  No.  8,  and  as  that  gentleman  was 
occupied  at  that  moment  with  a  younger  coun 
tryman,  he  allowed  the  old  man,  whom  he  had 
first  cautiously  observed  from  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  to  remain  where  he  was. 

The  old  man  stood  uncertainly  on  the  stoop, 
and  then  removed  his  heavy  black  felt  hat  and 
rubbed  his  bald  head  and  the  white  shining 
locks  of  hair  around  it  with  a  red  bandanna 
handkerchief.  Then  he  walked  very  slowly 
across  the  street  toward  Snipes,  for  the  rest  of 
the  street  was  empty,  and  there  was  no  one 
else  at  hand.  The  old  man  was  dressed  in 
heavy  black  broadcloth,  quaintly  cut,  with 
boot  legs  showing  up  under  the  trousers,  and 
with  faultlessly  clean  linen  of  home-made  man 
ufacture. 

295 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

"I  can't  make  the  people  in  that  house  over 
there  hear  me,"  complained  the  old  man,  with 
the  simple  confidence  that  old  age  has  in  very 
young  boys.  "Do  you  happen  to  know  if 
they're  at  home?" 

"Nop,"  growled  Snipes. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  man  named  Perceval," 
said  the  stranger;  "he  lives  in  that  house,  and  I 
wanter  see  him  on  most  particular  business. 
It  isn't  a  very  pleasing  place  he  lives  in,  is  it— 
at  least,"  he  hurriedly  added,  as  if  fearful  of 
giving  offense,  "it  isn't  much  on  the  outside? 
Do  you  happen  to  know  him?" 

Perceval  was  Alf  Wolfe's  business  name. 

"Nop,"  said  the  trailer. 

"Well,  I'm  not  looking  for  him,"  explained 
the  stranger,  slowly,  "as  much  as  I'm  looking 
for  a  young  man  that  I  kind  of  suspect  is  been 
to  see  him  to-day:  a  young  man  that  looks  like 
me,  only  younger.  Has  lightish  hair  and  pretty 
tall  and  lanky,  and  carrying  a  shiny  black  bag 
with  him.  Did  you  happen  to  hev  noticed  him 
going  into  that  place  across  the  way?" 

"Nop,"  said  Snipes. 

The  old  man  sighed  and  nodded  his  head 
thoughtfully  at  Snipes,  and  puckered  up  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  as  though  he  were  think 
ing  deeply.  He  had  wonderfully  honest  blue 
eyes,  and  with  the  white  hair  hanging  around 

296 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.   8 

his  sunburned  face,  he  looked  like  an  old  saint. 
But  the  trailer  didn't  know  that:  he  did  know, 
though,  that  this  man  was  a  different  sort  from 
the  rest.  Still,  that  was  none  of  his  business. 

"What  is't  you  want  to  see  him  about?"  he 
asked  sullenly,  while  he  looked  up  and  down 
the  street  and  everywhere  but  at  the  old  man, 
and  rubbed  one  bare  foot  slowly  over  the  other. 

The  old  man  looked  pained,  and  much  to 
Snipe's  surprise,  the  question  brought  the  tears 
to  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  trembled.  Then  he 
swerved  slightly,  so  that  he  might  have  fallen  if 
Snipes  had  not  caught  him  and  helped  him 
across  the  pavement  to  a  seat  on  a  stoop. 
"Thankey,  son,"  said  the  stranger;  "I'm  not 
as  strong  as  I  was,  an'  the  sun's  mighty 'hot, 
an'  these  streets  of  yours  smell  mighty  bad, 
and  I've  had  a  powerful  lot  of  trouble  these 
last  few  days.  But  if  I  could  see  this  man 
Perceval  before  my  boy  does,  I  know  I  could 
fix  it,  and  it  would  all  come  out  right." 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  him  about?"  re 
peated  the  trailer,  suspiciously,  while  he  fanned 
the  old  man  with  his  hat.  Snipes  could  not 
have  told  you  why  he  did  this  or  why  this  par 
ticular  old  countryman  was  any  different  from 
the  many  others  who  came  to  buy  counterfeit 
money  and  who  were  thieves  at  heart  as  well 
as  in  deed. 

297 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.   8 

"I  want  to  see  him  about  my  son,"  said  the 
old  man  to  the  little  boy.  "He's  a  bad  man 
whoever  he  is.  This  'ere  Perceval  is  a  bad 
man.  He  sends  down  his  wickedness  to  the 
country  and  tempts  weak  folks  to  sin.  He 
teaches  'em  ways  of  evil-doing  they  never  heard 
of,  and  he's  ruined  my  son  with  the  others- 
ruined  him.  I've  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
city  and  its  ways;  we're  strict  living,  simple 
folks,  and  perhaps  we've  been  too  strict,  or 
Abraham  wouldn't  have  run  away  to  the  city. 
But  I  thought  it  was  best,  and  I  doubted  noth 
ing  when  the  fresh-air  children  came  to  the 
farm.  I  didn't  like  city  children,  but  I  let  'em 
come.  I  took  'em  in,  and  did  what  I  could  to 
make  it  pleasant  for  'em.  Poor  little  fellers, 
all  as  thin  as  corn-stalks  and  pale  as  ghosts, 
and  as  dirty  as  you. 

"I  took  'em  in  and  let  'em  ride  the  horses, 
and  swim  in  the  river,  and  shoot  crows  in  the 
cornfield,  and  eat  all  the  cherries  they  could 
pull,  and  what  did  the  city  send  me  in  return 
for  that?  It  sent  me  this  thieving,  rascally 
scheme  of  this  man  Perceval's,  and  it  turned 
my  boy's  head,  and  lost  him  to  me.  I  saw  him 
poring  over  the  note  and  reading  it  as  if  it 
were  Gospel,  and  I  suspected  nothing.  And 
when  he  asked  me  if  he  could  keep  it,  I  said 
yes  he  could,  for  I  thought  he  wanted  it  for  a 

298 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

curiosity,  and  then  off  he  put  with  the  black 
bag  and  the  $200  he's  been  saving  up  to  start 
housekeeping  with  when  the  old  Deacon  says 
he  can  marry  his  daughter  Kate."  The  old 
man  placed  both  hands  on  his  knees  and  went 
on  excitedly. 

"The  old  Deacon  says  he'll  not  let  'em  marry 
till  Abe  has  $2,000,  and  that  is  what  the  boy's 
come  after.  He  wants  to  buy  $2,000  worth  of 
bad  money  with  his  $200  worth  of  good  money, 
to  show  the  Deacon,  just  as  though  it  were 
likely  a  marriage  after  such  a  crime  as  that 
would  ever  be  a  happy  one." 

Snipes  had  stopped  fanning  the  old  man,  as 
he  ran  on,  and  was  listening  intently,  with  an 
uncomfortable  feeling  of  sympathy  and  sorrow, 
uncomfortable  because  he  was  not  used  to  it. 

He  could  not  see  why  the  old  man  should 
think  the  city  should  have  treated  his  boy  bet 
ter  because  he  had  taken  care  of  the  city's  chil 
dren,  and  he  was  puzzled  between  his  allegiance 
to  the  gang  and  his  desire  to  help  the  gang's 
innocent  victim,  and  then  because  he  was  an 
innocent  victim  and  not  a  "customer,"  he  let 
his  sympathy  get  the  better  of  his  discretion. 

"Saay,"  he  began,  abruptly,  "I'm  not  sayin' 
nothin'  to  nobody,  and  nobody's  sayin'  nothin' 
to  me — see?  but  I  guess  your  son'II  be  around 
here  to-day,  sure.  He's  got  to  come  before  one, 

299 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.   8 

for  this  office  closes  sharp  at  one,  and  we  goes 
home.  Now,  I've  got  the  call  whether  he  gets 
his  stuff  taken  off  him  or  whether  the  boys 
leave  him  alone.  If  I  say  the  word,  they'd  no 
more  come  near  him  than  if  he  had  the  cholera 
—see?  An'  I'll  say  it  for  this  oncet,  just  for 
you.  Hold  on,"  he  commanded,  as  the  old 
man  raised  his  voice  in  surprised  interrogation, 
"don't  ask  no  questions,  'cause  you  won't  get 
no  answers  except  lies.  You  find  your  way 
back  to  the  Grand  Central  Depot  and  wait 
there,  and  I'll  steer  your  son  down  to  you,  sure, 
as  soon  as  I  can  find  him — see?  Now  get 
along,  or  you'll  get  me  inter  trouble." 

"  You've  been  lying  to  me,  then,"  cried  the 
old  man,  "and  you're  as  bad  as  any  of  them, 
and  my  boy's  over  in  that  house  now." 

He  scrambled  up  from  the  stoop,  and  before 
the  trailer  could  understand  what  he  proposed 
to  do,  had  dashed  across  the  street  and  up  the 
stoop,  and  up  the  stairs,  and  had  burst  into 
room  No.  8. 

Snipes  tore  after  him.  "Come  back!  come 
back  out  of  that,  you  old  fool!"  he  cried. 
''  You'll  get  killed  in  there !"  Snipes  wras  afraid 
to  enter  room  No.  8,  but  he  could  hear  from 
the  outside  the  old  man  challenging  Alf  Wolfe 
in  a  resonant  angry  voice  that  rang  through 
the  building. 

300 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.   8 

"Whew!"  said  Snipes,  crouching  on  the 
stairs,  "there's  goin'  to  be  a  muss  this  time, 
sure!" 

"Where's  my  son?  Where  have  you  hidden 
my  son?"  demanded  the  old  man.  He  ran 
across  the  room  and  pulled  open  a  door  that  led 
into  another  room,  but  it  was  empty.  He  had 
fully  expected  to  see  his  boy  murdered  and 
quartered,  and  with  his  pockets  inside  out.  He 
turned  on  Wolfe,  shaking  his  white  hair  like  a 
mane.  "Give  me  up  my  son,  you  rascal  you !" 
he  cried,  "or  I'll  get  the  police,  and  I'll  tell 
them  how  you  decoy  honest  boys  to  your  den 
and  murder  them." 

"Are  you  drunk  or  crazy,  or  just  a  little  of 
both?"  asked  Mr.  Wolfe.  "For  a  cent  I'd 
throw  you  out  of  that  window.  Get  out  of 
here !  Quick,  now !  You're  too  old  to  get  ex 
cited  like  that;  it's  not  good  for  you." 

But  this  only  exasperated  the  old  man  the 
more,  and  he  made  a  lunge  at  the  confidence 
man's  throat. 

Mr.  Wolfe  stepped  aside  and  caught  him 
around  the  waist  and  twisted  his  leg  around 
the  old  man's  rheumatic  one,  and  held  him. 
"Now,"  said  Wolfe,  as  quietly  as  though  he 
were  giving  a  lesson  in  wrestling,  "if  I  wanted 
to,  I  could  break  your  back." 

The  old  man  glared  up  at  him,  panting. 
301 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

"Your  son's  not  here,'*  said  Wolfe,  "and  this 
is  a  private  gentleman's  private  room.  I  could 
turn  you  over  to  the  police  for  assault  if  I 
wanted  to;  but,"  he  added,  magnanimously,  "I 
won't.  Now  get  out  of  here  and  go  home  to 
your  wife,  and  when  you  come  to  see  the  sights 
,  again  don't  drink  so  much  raw  whiskey."  He 
half  carried  the  old  farmer  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs  and  dropped  him,  and  went  back  and 
closed  the  door.  Snipes  came  up  and  helped 
him  down  and  out,  and  the  old  man  and  the 
boy  walked  slowly  and  in  silence  out  to  the 
Bowery.  Snipes  helped  his  companion  into  a 
car  and  put  him  off  at  the  Grand  Central  De 
pot.  The  heat  and  the  excitement  had  told 
heavily  on  the  old  man,  and  he  seemed  dazed 
and  beaten. 

He  was  leaning  on  the  trailer's  shoulder  and 
waiting  for  his  turn  in  the  line  in  front  of  the 
ticket  window,  when  a  tall,  gawky,  good-looking 
country  lad  sprang  out  of  it  and  at  him  with  an 
expression  of  surprise  and  anxiety.  "Father," 
he  said,  "father,  what's  wrong?  What  are  you 
doing  here?  Is  anybody  ill  at  home?  Are  you 
ill?" 

"Abraham,"  said  the  old  man,  simply,  and 
dropped  heavily  on  the  younger  man's  shoulder. 
Then  he  raised  his  head  sternly  and  said:  "I 
thought  you  were  murdered,  but  better  that 

302 


THE  TRAILER   FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

than  a  thief,  Abraham.  What  brought  you 
here?  What  did  you  do  with  that  rascal's 
letter?  What  did  you  do  with  his  money?" 

The  trailer  drew  cautiously  away;  the  con 
versation  was  becoming  unpleasantly  personal. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about," 
said  Abraham,  calmly.  "The  Deacon  gave  his 
consent  the  other  night  without  the  $2,000, 
and  I  took  the  $200  I'd  saved  and  came  right 
on  in  the  fust  train  to  buy  the  ring.  It's 
pretty,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  flushing,  as  he  pulled 
out  a  little  velvet  box  and  opened  it. 

The  old  man  was  so  happy  at  this  that  he 
laughed  and  cried  alternately,  and  then  he  made 
a  grab  for  the  trailer  and  pulled  him  down  be 
side  him  on  one  of  the  benches. 

"You've  got  to  come  with  me,"  he  said,  with 
kind  severity.  "  You're  a  good  boy,  but  your 
folks  have  let  you  run  wrong.  You've  been 
good  to  me,  and  you  said  you  would  get  me 
back  my  boy  and  save  him  from  those  thieves, 
and  I  believe  now  that  you  meant  it.  Now 
you're  just  coming  back  with  us  to  the  farm 
and  the  cows  and  the  river,  and  you  can  eat 
all  you  want  and  live  with  us,  and  never, 
never  see  this  unclean,  wicked  city  again." 

Snipes  looked  up  keenly  from  under  the  rim 
of  his  hat  and  rubbed  one  of  his  muddy  feet 
over  the  other  as  was  his  habit.  The  young 

303 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

countryman,  greatly  puzzled,  and  the  older 
man  smiling  kindly,  waited  expectantly  in 
silence.  From  outside  came  the  sound  of  the 
car-bells  jangling,  and  the  rattle  of  cabs,  and 
the  cries  of  drivers,  and  all  the  varying  rush 
and  turmoil  of  a  great  metropolis.  Green  fields, 
and  running  rivers,  and  fruit  that  did  not  grow 
in  wooden  boxes  or  brown  paper  ones,  were 
myths  and  idle  words  to  Snipes,  but  this  "un 
clean,  wicked  city"  he  knew. 

"I  guess  you're  too  good  for  me,"  he  said, 
with  an  uneasy  laugh.  "I  guess  little  old  New 
York's  good  enough  for  me." 

"What!"  cried  the  old  man,  in  the  tones  of 
greatest  concern.  :<You  would  go  back  to  that 
den  of  iniquity,  surely  not, — to  that  thief  Per 
ceval?" 

"Well,"  said  the  trailer,  slowly,  "and  he's 
not  such  a  bad  lot,  neither.  You  see  he  could 
hev  broke  your  neck  that  time  when  you  was 
choking  him,  but  he  didn't.  There's  your 
train,"  he  added  hurriedly  and  jumping  away. 
"Good-by.  So  long,  old  man.  I'm  much 
'bliged  to  you  jus'  for  asking  me." 

Two  hours  later  the  farmer  and  his  son  were 
making  the  family  weep  and  laugh  over  their 
adventures,  as  they  all  sat  together  on  the 
porch  with  the  vines  about  it;  and  the  trailer 
was  leaning  against  the  wall  of  a  saloon  and 

304 


THE  TRAILER  FOR  ROOM  NO.  8 

apparently  counting  his  ten 'toes,  but  in  reality1 
watching  for  Mr.  Wolfe  to  give  the  signal  from 
the  window  of  room  No.  8. 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

IT  was  a  warm  afternoon  in  the  early  spring, 
and  the  air  in  the  office  was  close  and  heavy. 
The  letters  of  the  morning  had  been  answered 
and  the  proofs  corrected,  and  the  gentlemen 
who  had  come  with  ideas  worth  one  column  at 
space  rates,  and  which  they  thought  worth 
three,  had  compromised  with  the  editor  on  a 
basis  of  two,  and  departed.  The  editor's  desk 
was  covered  with  manuscripts  in  a  heap,  a  heap 
that  never  seemed  to  grow  less,  and  each  manu 
script  bore  a  character  of  its  own,  as  marked  or 
as  unobtrusive  as  the  character  of  the  man  or 
of  the  woman  who  had  written  it,  which  dis 
closed  itself  in  the  care  with  which  some  were 
presented  for  consideration,  in  the  vain  little 
ribbons  of  other,  or  the  selfish  manner  in  which 
still  others  were  tightly  rolled  or  vilely  scrib 
bled. 

The  editor  held  the  first  page  of  a  poem  in  his 
hand,  and  was  reading  it  mechanically,  for  its 
length  had  already  declared  against  it,  unless  it 
might  chance  to  be  the  precious  gem  out  of  a 
thousand,  which  must  be  chosen  in  spite  of  its 
twenty  stanzas.  But  as  the  editor  read,  his 

306 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

interest  awakened,  and  he  scanned  the  verses 
again,  as  one  would  turn  to  look  a  second  time 
at  a  face  which  seemed  familiar.  At  the  fourth 
stanza  his  memory  was  still  in  doubt,  at  the 
sixth  it  was  warming  to  the  chase,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  page  was  in  full  cry.  He  caught  up 
the  second  page  and  looked  for  the  final  verse, 
and  then  at  the  name  below,  and  then  back 
again  quickly  to  the  title  of  the  poem,  and 
pushed  aside  the  papers  on  his  desk  in  search 
of  any  note  which  might  have  accompanied  it. 

The  name  signed  at  the  bottom  of  the  second 
page  was  Edwin  Aram,  the  title  of  the  poem 
was  "Bohemia,"  and  there  was  no  accompany 
ing  note,  only  the  name  Berkeley  written  at 
the  top  of  the  first  page.  The  envelope  in 
which  it  had  come  gave  no  further  clew.  It 
was  addressed  in  the  same  handwriting  as  that 
in  which  the  poem  had  been  written,  and  it 
bore  the  postmark  of  New  York  city.  There 
was  no  request  for  the  return  of  the  poem,  no 
direction  to  which  either  the  poem  itself  or  the 
check  for  its  payment  in  the  event  of  its  accep- 
•  tance  might  be  sent.  Berkeley  might  be  the 
name  of  an  apartment-house,  or  of  a  country 
place,  or  of  a  suburban  town. 

The  editor  stepped  out  of  his  office  mto  the 
larger  room  beyond  and  said:  "I've  a  poem^here 
that  appeared  in  an  American  magazine  about 

307 


f  THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

seven  years  ago.  I  remember  the  date,  because 
I  read  it  when  I  was  at  college.  Some  one  is 
either  trying  to  play  a  trick  on  us,  or  to  get 
money  by  stealing  some  other  man's  brains." 

It  was  in  this  way  that  Edwin  Aram  first 
introduced  himself  to  our  office,  and  while  his 
poem  was  not  accepted,  it  was  not  returned. 
On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Aram  became  to  us  one  of 
the  most  interesting  of  our  would-be  contrib 
utors,  and  there  was  no  author,  no  matter  of 
what  popularity,  for  whose  work  we  waited 
with  greater  impatience.  But  Mr.  Aram's  per 
sonality  still  remained  as  completely  hidden 
from  us  as  were  the  productions  which  he 
offered  from  the  sight  of  our  subscribers;  for 
each  of  the  poems  he  sent  had  been  stolen  out 
right  and  signed  with  his  name. 

It  was  through  no  fault  of  ours  that  he  con 
tinued  to  blush  unseen,  or  that  his  pretty  taste 
in  poems  was  unappreciated  by  the  general 
reader.  We  followed  up  every  clew  and  every 
hint  he  chose  to  give  us  with  an  enthusiasm 
worthy  of  a  search  after  a  lost  explorer,  and 
with  an  animus  worthy  of  better  game.  Yet 
there  was  some  reason  for  our  interest.  The 
man  who  steals  the  work  of  another  and  who 
passes  it  off  as  his  own  is  the  special  foe  of  every 
editor,  but  this  particular  editor  had  a  personal 
distrust  of  Mr.  Aram.  He  imagined  that  these 

308 


THE   EDITOR'S  STORY 

poems  might  possibly  be  a  trap  which  some  one 
had  laid  for  him  with  the  purpose  of  drawing 
him  into  printing  them,  and  then  of  pointing 
out  by  this  fact  how  little  read  he  was,  and 
how  unfit  to  occupy  the  swivel-chair  into  which 
he  had  so  lately  dropped.  Or  if  this  were  not 
the  case,  the  man  was  in  any  event  the  enemy 
of  all  honest  people,  who  look  unkindly  on  those 
who  try  to  obtain  money  by  false  pretenses. 

The  evasions  of  Edwin  Aram  were  many, 
and  his  methods  to  avoid  detection  not  without 
skill.  His  second  poem  was  written  on  a  sheet 
of  note-paper  bearing  the  legend  "The  Shake 
speare  Debating  Club.  Edwin  Aram,  Presi 
dent." 

This  was  intended  to  reassure  us  as  to  his 
literary  taste  and  standard,  and  to  meet  any 
suspicion  we  might  feel  had  there  been  no  ad 
dress  of  any  sort  accompanying  the  poem.  No 
one  we  knew  had  ever  heard  of  a  Shakespeare 
Debating  Club  in  New  York  city;  but  we  gave 
him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  until  we  found  that 
this  poem,  like  the  first,  was  also  stolen.  His 
'  third  poem  bore  his  name  and  an  address, 
which  on  instant  inquiry  turned  out  to  be  that 
of  a  vacant  lot  on  Seventh  Avenue  near  Central 
Park. 

Edwin  Aram  had  by  this  time  become  an  ex 
asperating  and  picturesque  individual,  and  the 

309 


editorial  staff  was  divided  in  its  opinion  con 
cerning  him.  It  was  argued  on  one  hand  that 
as  the  man  had  never  sent  us  a  real  address,  his 
object  must  be  to  gain  a  literary  reputation  at 
the  expense  of  certain  poets,  and  not  to  make 
money  at  ours.  Others  answered  this  by  say 
ing  that  fear  of  detection  alone  kept  Edwin 
Aram  from  sending  his  real  address,  but  that 
as  soon  as  his  poem  was  printed,  and  he  ascer 
tained  by  that  fact  that  he  had  not  been  dis 
covered,  he  would  put  in  an  application  for 
payment,  and  let  us  know  quickly  enough  to 
what  portion  of  New  York  city  his  check  should 
be  forwarded. 

This,  however,  presupposed  the  fact  that  he 
was  writing  to  us  over  his  real  name,  which  we 
did  not  believe  he  would  dare  to  do.  No  one 
in  our  little  circle  of  journalists  and  literary 
men  had  ever  heard  of  such  a  man,  and  his 
name  did  not  appear  in  the  directory.  This 
fact,  however,  was  not  convincing  in  itself,  as 
the  residents  of  New  York  move  from  flat  to 
hotel,  and  from  apartments  to  boarding-houses 
as  frequently  as  the  Arab  changes  his  camping- 
ground.  We  tried  to  draw  him  out  at  last  by 
publishing  a  personal  paragraph  which  stated 
that  several  contributions  received  from  Edwin 
Aram  would  be  returned  to  him  if  he  would 
send  stamps  and  his  present  address.  The 

310 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

editor  did  not  add  that  he  would  return  the 
poems  in  person,  but  such  was  his  warlike 
intention. 

This  had  the  desired  result,  and  brought  us  a 
fourth  poem  and  a  fourth  address,  the  name  of 
a  tall  building  which  towers  above  Union 
Square.  We  seemed  to  be  getting  very  warm 
now,  and  the  editor  gathered  up  the  four  poems, 
and  called  to  his  aid  his  friend  Bronson,  the 

ablest  reporter  on  the  New  York  ,   who 

was  to  act  as  chronicler.  They  took  with  them 
letters  from  the  authors  of  two  of  the  poems 
and  from  the  editor  of  the  magazine  in  which 
the  first  one  had  originally  appeared,  testifying 
to  the  fact  that  Edwin  Aram  had  made  an  exact 
copy  of  the  original,  and  wishing  the  brother 
editor  good  luck  in  catching  the  plagiarist. 

The  reporter  looked  these  over  with  a  critical 
eye.  "The  City  Editor  told  me  if  we  caught 
him,"  he  said,  "that  I  could  let  it  run  for  all  it 
was  worth.  I  can  use  these  names,  I  suppose, 
and  I  guess  they  have  pictures  of  the  poets  at 
the  office.  If  he  turns  out  to  be  anybody  in 
particular,  it  ought  to  be  worth  a  full  three 
columns.  Sunday  paper,  too." 

The  amateur  detectives  stood  in  the  lower  hall 
in  the  tall  building,  between  swinging  doors, 
and  jostled  by  hurrying  hundreds,  while  they 
read  the  names  on  a  marble  directory. 

3" 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

" There  he  is!"  said  the  editor,  excitedly. 
"American  Literary  Bureau.'  One  room  on 
the  fourteenth  floor.  That's  just  the  sort  of  a 
place  in  which  we  would  be  likely  to  find  him." 
But  the  reporter  was  gazing  open-eyed  at  a 
name  in  large  letters  on  an  office  door.  "Ed 
ward  K.  Aram,"  it  read,  "Commissioner  of 
,  and  City ." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  gasped,  tri 
umphantly. 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  editor.  "He  wouldn't 
dare;  besides,  the  initials  are  different.  You're 
expecting  too  good  a  story." 

" That's  the  way  to  get  them,"  answered  the 
reporter,  as  he  hurried  toward  the  office  of  the 

City  .     "If  a  man  falls  dead,  believe  it's 

a  suicide  until  you  prove  it's  not;  if  you  find  a 
suicide,  believe  it's  a  murder  until  you  are  con 
vinced  to  the  contrary.  Otherwise  you'll  get 
beaten.  We  don't  want  the  proprietor  of  a 
little  literary  bureau,  we  want  a  big  city  official, 
and  I'll  believe  we  have  one  until  he  proves  we 
haven't." 

"Which  are  you  going  to  ask  for?"  whispered 
the  editor,  "Edward  K.  or  Edwin?" 

"Edwin,  I  should  say,"  answered  the  re 
porter.  "He  has  probably  given  notice  that 
mail  addressed  that  way  should  go  to  him." 

"Is  Mr.  Edwin  Aram  in?"  he  asked. 
312 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

A  clerk  raised  his  head  and  looked  behind 
him.  "No,"  he  said;  "his  desk  is  closed.  I 
guess  he's  gone  home  for  the  day." 

The  reporter  nudged  the  editor  savagely  with 
his  elbow,  but  his  face  gave  no  sign.  "That's  a 
pity,"  he  said;  "we  have  an  appointment  with 
him.  He  still  lives  at  Sixty-first  Street  and 
Madison  Avenue,  I  believe,  does  he  not?" 

"No,"  said  the  clerk;  "that's  his  father,  the 
Commissioner,  Edward  K.  The  son  lives  at 

.  Take  the  Sixth  Avenue  elevated  and 

get  off  at  1 1 6th  Street." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  reporter.  He  turned 
a  triumphant  smile  upon  the  editor.  "We've 
got  him !"  he  said,  excitedly.  "And  the  son  of 
old  Edward  K.,  too !  Think  of  it !  Trying  to 
steal  a  few  dollars  by  cribbing  other  men's 
poems;  that's  the  best  story  there  has  been  in 
the  papers  for  the  past  three  months, — '  Ed 
ward  K.  Aram's  son  a  thief!'  Look  at  the 
names — politicians,  poets,  editors,  all  mixed  up 
in  it.  It's  good  for  three  columns,  sure." 

"We've  got  to  think  of  his  people,  too,"  urged 
the  editor,  as  they  mounted  the  steps  of  the  ele 
vated  road. 

"He  didn't  think  of  them,"  said  the  reporter. 

The  house  in  which  Mr.  Aram  lived  was  an 
apartment-house,  and  the  brass  latchets  in  the 
hallway  showed  that  it  contained  three  suites. 

313 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

There  were  visiting-cards  under  the  latchets  of 
the  first  and  third  stories,  and  under  that  of  the 
second  a  piece  of  note-paper  on  which  was  writ 
ten  the  autograph  of  Edwin  Aram.  The  editor 
looked  at  it  curiously.  He  had  never  believed 
it  to  be  a  real  name. 

"I  am  sorry  Edwin  Aram  did  not  turn  out 
to  be  a  woman,"  he  said,  regretfully;  "it  would 
have  been  so  much  more  interesting." 

"Now,"  instructed  Bronson,  impressively, 
"whether  he  is  in  or  not,  we  have  him.  If  he's 
not  in,  we  wait  until  he  comes,  even  if  he  doesn't 
come  until  morning;  we  don't  leave  this  place 
until  we  have  seen  him." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  editor. 

The  maid  left  them  standing  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs  while  she  went  to  ask  if  Mr.  Aram  was 
in,  and  whether  he  would  see  two  gentlemen 
who  did  not  give  their  names  because  they  were 
strangers  to  him.  The  two  stood  silent  while 
they  waited,  eying  each  other  anxiously,  and 
when  the  girl  reopened  the  door,  nodded  pleas 
antly,  and  said,  "Yes,  Mr.  Aram  is  in,"  they 
hurried  past  her  as  though  they  feared  that  he 
would  disappear  in  mid-air,  or  float  away 
through  the  windows  before  they  could  reach 
him. 

And  yet,  when  they  stood  at  last  face  to  face 
with  him,  he  bore  a  most  disappointing  air  of 

3'4 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

every-day  respectability.  He  was  a  tall,  thin 
young  man,  with  light  hair  and  mustache  and 
large  blue  eyes.  His  back  was  toward  the  win 
dow,  so  that  his  face  was  in  the  shadow,  and  he 
did  not  rise  as  they  entered.  The  room  in 
which  he  sat  was  a  prettily  furnished  one,  open 
ing  into  another  tiny  room,  which,  from  the 
number  of  books  in  it,  might  have  been  called 
a  library.  The  rooms  had  a  well-to-do,  even 
prosperous,  air,  but  they  did  not  show  any  evi 
dences  of  a  pronounced  taste  on  the  part  of  their 
owner,  either  in  the  way  in  which  they  were 
furnished  or  in  the  decorations  of  the  walls.  A 
little  girl  of  about  seven  or  eight  years  of  age, 
who  was  standing  between  her  father's  knees, 
with  a  hand  on  each,  and  with  her  head  thrown 
back  on  his  shoulder,  looked  up  at  the  two 
visitors  with  evident  interest,  and  smiled 
brightly. 

"Mr.  Aram?"  asked  the  editor,  tentatively. 

The  young  man  nodded,  and  the  two  visitors 
seated  themselves. 

"  I  wish  to  talk  to  you  on  a  matter  of  private 
business,"  the  editor  began.  "Wouldn't  it  be 
better  to  send  the  little  girl  away?" 

The  child  shook  her  head  violently  at  this, 
and  crowded  up  closely  to  her  father;  but  he 
held  her  away  from  him  gently,  and  told  her 
to  "run  and  play  with  Annie." 

315 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

She  passed  the  two  visitors,  with  her  head 
held  scornfully  in  air,  and  left  the  men  together. 
Mr.  Aram  seemed  to  have  a  most  passive  and 
incurious  disposition.  He  could  have  no  idea 
as  to  who  his  anonymous  visitors  might  be,  nor 
did  he  show  any  desire  to  know. 

"I  am  the  editor  of ,"  the  editor  began. 

"My  friend  also  writes  for  that  periodical.  I 
have  received  several  poems  from  you  lately, 
Mr.  Aram,  and  one  in  particular  which  we  all 
liked  very  much.  It  was  called  'Bohemia.' 
But  it  is  so  like  one  that  has  appeared  under 

the  same  title  in  the  Magazine  that  I 

thought  I  would  see  you  about  it,  and  ask  you 
if  you  could  explain  the  similarity.  You  see," 
he  went  on,  "it  would  be  less  embarrassing  if 
you  would  do  so  now  than  later,  when  the  poem 
has  been  published  and  when  people  might 
possibly  accuse  you  of  plagiarism."  The  editor 
smiled  encouragingly  and  waited. 

Mr.  Aram  crossed  one  leg  over  the  other  and 
folded  his  hands  in  his  lap.  He  exhibited  no 
interest,  and  looked  drowsily  at  the  editor. 
When  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  tone  of  unstudied  in 
difference.  "I  never  wrote  a  poem  called  'Bo 
hemia,'"  he  said,  slowly;  "at  least,  if  I  did  I 
don't  remember  it." 

The  editor  had  not  expected  a  flat  denial,  and 
it  irritated  him,  for  he  recognized  it  to  be  the 

316 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

safest  course  the  man  could  pursue,  if  he  kept 
to  ft.  "But  you  don't  mean  to  say,"  he  pro 
tested,  smiling,  "that  you  can  write  so  excel 
lent  a  poem  as  'Bohemia*  and  then  forget  hav 
ing  done  so?" 

"  I  might,"  said  Mr.  Aram,  unresentfully,  and 
with  little  interest.  "I  scribble  a  good  deal." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  the  reporter,  politely, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  trying  to  cover  up  a 
difficulty  to  the  satisfaction  of  all,  "Mr.  Aram 
would  remember  it  if  he  saw  it." 

The  editor  nodded  his  head  in  assent,  and 
took  the  first  page  of  the  two  on  which  the 
poem  was  written,  and  held  it  out  to  Mr.  Aram, 
who  accepted  the  piece  of  foolscap  and  eyed  it 
listlessly. 

"Yes,  I  wrote  that,"  he  said.  "I  copied  it 
out  of  a  book  called  'Gems  from  American 
Poets."  There  was  a  lazy  pause.  "But  I 
never  sent  it  to  any  paper."  The  editor  and  the 
reporter  eyed  each  other  with  outward  calm 
but  with  some  inward  astonishment.  They 
could  not  see  why  he  had  not  adhered  to  his 
original  denial  of  the  thing  in  toto.  It  seemed 
to  them  so  foolish  to  admit  having  copied  the 
poem  and  then  to  deny  having  forwarded  it. 

''You  see,"  explained  Mr.  Aram,  still  with 
no  apparent  interest  in  the  matter,  "I  am  very 
fond  of  poetry;  I  like  to  recite  it,  and  I  often 

317 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

write  it  out  in  order  to  make  me  remember  it. 
I  find  it  impresses  the  words  on  my  mind. 
Well,  that's  what  has  happened.  I  have  copied 
this  poem  out  at  the  office  probably,  and  one  of 
the  clerks  there  has  found  it,  and  has  supposed 
that  I  wrote  it,  and  he  has  sent  it  to  your  paper 
as  a  sort  of  a  joke  on  me.  You  see,  father  being 
so  well  known,  it  would  rather  amuse  the  boys 
if  I  came  out  as  a  poet.  That's  how  it  was,  I 
guess.  Somebody  must  have  found  it  and  sent 
it  to  you,  because  /  never  sent  it." 

There  was  a  moment  of  thoughtful  considera 
tion.  "I  see,"  said  the  editor.  "I  used  to  do 
that  same  thing  myself  when  I  had  to  recite 
pieces  at  school.  I  found  that  writing  the 
verses  down  helped  me  to  remember  them.  I 
remember  that  I  once  copied  out  many  of 
Shakespeare's  sonnets.  But,  Mr.  Aram,  it 
never  occurred  to  me,  after  having  copied  out 
one  of  Shakespeare's  sonnets,  to  sign  my  own 
name  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

Mr.  Aram's  eyes  dropped  to  the  page  of 
manuscript  in  his  hand  and  rested  there  for 
some  little  time.  Then  he  said,  without  raising 
his  head,  "  I  haven't  signed  this." 

"No,"  replied  the  editor;  "but  you  signed 
the  second  page,  which  I  still  have  in  my  hand." 

The  editor  and  his  companion  expected  some 
expression  of  indignation  from  Mr.  Aram  at 

318 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

this,  some  question  of  their  right  to  come  into 
his  house  and  cross-examine  him  and  to  accuse 
him,  tentatively  at  least,  of  literary  fraud,  but 
they  were  disappointed.  Mr.  Aram's  manner 
was  still  one  of  absolute  impassibility.  Whether 
this  manner  was  habitual  to  him  they  could  not 
know,  but  it  made  them  doubt  their  own  judg 
ment  in  having  so  quickly  accused  him,  as  it 
bore  the  look  of  undismayed  innocence. 

It  was  the  reporter  who  was  the  first  to  break 
the  silence.  "  Perhaps  some  one  has  signed  Mr. 
Aram's  name — the  clerk  who  sent  it,  for  in 
stance." 

Young  Mr.  Aram  looked  up  at  him  curiously, 
and  held  out  his  hand  for  the  second  page. 
"Yes,"  he  drawled,  "that's  how  it  happened. 
That's  not  my  signature.  I  never  signed  that." 

The  editor  was  growing  restless.  "I  have 
several  other  poems  here  from  you,"  he  said; 
"one  written  from  the  rooms  of  the  Shake 
speare  Debating  Club,  of  which  I  see  you  are 
president.  Your  clerk  could  not  have  access 
there,  could  he?  He  did  not  write  that,  too?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Aram,  doubtfully,  "he  could 
not  have  written  that." 

The  editor  handed  him  the  poem.  "It's 
yours,  then?" 

"Yes,  that's  mine,"  Mr.  Aram  replied. 

"And  the  signature?" 

319 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

"Yes,  and  the  signature.  I  wrote  that  my 
self,"  Mr.  Aram  explained,  "and  sent  it  myself. 
That  other  one  ('Bohemia')  I  just  copied  out 
to  remember,  but  this  is  original  with  me." 

"And  the  envelope  in  which  it  was  enclosed," 
asked  the  editor,  "did  you  address  that  also?" 

Mr.  Aram  examined  it  uninterestedly.  "Yes, 
that's  my  handwriting  too."  He  raised  his 
head.  His  face  wore  an  expression  of  patient 
politeness. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  editor,  suddenly,  in 
some  embarrassment.  "I  handed  you  the 
wrong  envelope.  I  beg  your  pardon.  That 
envelope  is  the  one  in  which  'Bohemia'  came." 

The  reporter  gave  a  hardly  perceptible  start; 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  pattern  of  the  rug  at 
his  feet,  and  the  editor  continued  to  examine 
the  papers  in  his  hand.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence.  From  outside  came  the  noise  of  chil 
dren  playing  in  the  street  and  the  rapid  rush  of 
a  passing  wagon. 

When  the  two  visitors  raised  their  heads  Mr. 
Aram  was  looking  at  them  strangely,  and  the 
fingers  folded  in  his  lap  were  twisting  in  and  out. 

"This  Shakespeare  Debating  Club,"  said  the 
editor,  "where  are  its  rooms,  Mr.  Aram?" 

"It  has  no  rooms,  now,"  answered  the  poet. 
"It  has  disbanded.  It  never  had  any  regular 
rooms;  we  just  met  about  and  read." 

320 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

"I  see — exactly,"  said  the  editor.  "And  the 
house  on  Seventh  Avenue  from  which  your 
third  poem  was  sent — did  you  reside  there  then, 
or  have  you  always  lived  here?" 

"No,  yes — I  used  to  live  there — I  lived  there 
when  I  wrote  that  poem." 

The  editor  looked  at  the  reporter  and  back  at 
Mr.  Aram.  "  It  is  a  vacant  lot,  Mr.  Aram,"  he 
said,  gravely. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  poet  rocked 
slowly  up  and  down  in  his  rocking-chair,  and 
looked  at  his  hands,  which  he  rubbed  over  one 
another  as  though  they  were  cold.  Then  he 
raised  his  head  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "you  have  made 
out  your  case." 

"Yes,"  said  the  editor,  regretfully,  "we  have 
made  out  our  case."  He  could  not  help  but 
wish  that  the  fellow  had  stuck  to  his  original 
denial.  It  was  too  easy  a  victory. 

"I  don't  say,  mind  you,"  went  on  Mr.  Aram, 
"that  I  ever  took  anybody's  verses  and  sent 
them  to  a  paper  as  my  own,  but  I  ask  you,  as 
one  gentleman  talking  to  another,  and  inquiring 
for  information,  what  is  there  wrong  in  doing 
it?  I  say,  if  I  had  done  it,  which  I  don't  admit 
I  ever  did,  where's  the  harm?" 

"Where's  the  harm?"  cried  the  two  visitors 
in  chorus. 

321 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

"Obtaining  money  under  false  pretenses," 
said  the  editor,  "is  the  harm  you  do  the  pub 
lishers,  and  robbing  another  man  of  the  work 
of  his  brain  and  what  credit  belongs  to  him  is 
the  harm  you  do  him,  and  telling  a  lie  is  the 
least  harm  done.  Such  a  contemptible  foolish 
lie,  too,  that  you  might  have  known  would 
surely  find  you  out  in  spite  of  the  trouble  you 
took  to- 

"I  never  asked  you  for  any  money,"  inter 
rupted  Mr.  Aram,  quietly. 

"But  we  would  have  sent  it  to  you,  neverthe 
less,"  retorted  the  editor,  "if  we  had  not  dis 
covered  in  time  that  the  poems  were  stolen." 

"Where  would  you  have  sent  it?"  asked  Mr. 
Aram.  "I  never  gave  you  a  right  address,  did 
I?  I  ask  you,  did  I?" 

The  editor  paused  in  some  confusion.  "Well, 
if  you  did  not  want  the  money,  what  did  you 
want?"  he  exclaimed.  "I  must  say  I  should 
like  to  know." 

Mr.  Aram  rocked  himself  to  and  fro,  and 
gazed  at  his  two  inquisitors  with  troubled  eyes. 
"  I  didn't  see  any  harm  in  it  then,"  he  repeated. 
"I  don't  see  any  harm  in  it  now.  I  didn't  ask 
you  for  any  money.  I  sort  of  thought,"  he 
said,  confusedly,  "that  I  should  like  to  see  my 
name  in  print.  I  wanted  my  friends  to  see  it. 
I'd  have  liked  to  have  shown  it  to — to — well, 

322 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

I'd  like  my  wife  to  have  seen  it.  She's  inter 
ested  in  literature  and  books  and  magazines 
and  things  like  that.  That  was  all  I  wanted. 
That's  why  I  did  it." 

The  reporter  looked  up  askance  at  the  editor, 
as  a  prompter  watches  the  actor  to  see  if  he  is 
readv  to  take  his  cue.  i 

\j 

"How  do  I  know  that?"  demanded  the  edi 
tor,  sharply.  He  found  it  somewhat  difficult  to 
be  severe  with  this  poet,  for  the  man  admitted 
so  much  so  readily,  and  would  not  defend  him 
self.  Had  he  only  blustered  and  grown  angry 
and  ordered  them  out,  instead  of  sitting  help 
lessly  there  rocking  to  and  fro  and  picking  at 
the  back  of  his  hands,  it  would  have  made  it 
so  much  easier.  "How  do  we  know,"  repeated 
the  editor,  "that  you  did  not  intend  to  wait 
until  the  poems  had  appeared,  and  then  send 
us  your  real  address  and  ask  for  the  money, 
saying  that  you  had  moved  since  you  had  last 
written  us?" 

"Oh,"  protested  Mr.  Aram,  "you  know  I 
never  thought  of  that." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  of  the  sort,"  said  the 
editor.  "  I  only  know  that  you  have  forged  and 
lied  and  tried  to  obtain  money  that  doesn't 
belong  to  you,  and  that  I  mean  to  make  an 
example  of  you  and  frighten  other  men  from 
doing  the  same  thing.  No  editor  has  read 

323 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

every  poem  that  was  ever  written,  and  there  is 
no  protection  for  him  from  such  fellows  as  you, 
and  the  only  thing  he  can  do  when  he  does 
catch  one  of  you  is  to  make  an  example  of  him. 
That's  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I  am  going  to 
make  an  example  of  you.  I  am  going  to  nail 
you  up  as  people  nail  up  dead  crows  to  frighten 
off  the  live  ones.  It  is  my  intention  to  give 
this  to  the  papers  to-night,  and  you  know  what 
they  will  do  with  it  in  the  morning." 

There  was  a  long  and  most  uncomfortable 
pause,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  the  editor  did  not 
feel  it  as  much  as  did  the  man  opposite  him. 
The  editor  turned  to  his  friend  for  a  glance  of 
sympathy,  or  of  disapproval  even,  but  that 
gentleman  still  sat  bending  forward  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  while  he  tapped  with 
the  top  of  his  cane  against  his  teeth. 

"You  don't  mean,"  said  Mr.  Aram,  in  a 
strangely  different  voice  from  which  he  had  last 
spoken,  "that  you  would  do  that?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  blustered  the  editor.  But  even 
as  he  spoke  he  was  conscious  of  a  sincere  regret 
that  he  had  not  come  alone.  He  could  intui 
tively  feel  Bronson  mapping  out  the  story  in  his 
mind  and  memorizing  Aram's  every  word,  and 
taking  mental  notes  of  the  framed  certificates 
of  high  membership  in  different  military  and 
Masonic  associations  which  hung  upon  the 

324 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

walls.  It  had  not  been  long  since  the  editor 
was  himself  a  reporter,  and  he  could  see  that  it 
was  as  good  a  story  as  Bronson  could  wish  it 
to  be.  But  he  reiterated,  "Yes,  I  mean  to  give 
it  to  the  papers  to-night." 

"But  think,"  said  Aram — "think,  sir,  who  I 
am.  You  don't  want  to  ruin  me  for  the  rest 
of  my  life  just  for  a  matter  of  fifteen  dollars, 
do  you?  Fifteen  dollars  that  no  one  has  lost, 
either?  If  I'd  embezzled  a  million  or  so,  or  if 
I  had  robbed  the  city,  well  and  good !  I'd  have 
taken  big  risks  for  big  money;  but  you  are  going 
to  punish  me  just  as  hard  because  I  tried  to 
please  my  wife,  as  though  I  had  robbed  a  mint. 
No  one  has  really  been  hurt,"  he  pleaded;  "the 
men  who  wrote  the  poems — they've  been  paid 
for  them;  they've  got  all  the  credit  for  them 
they  can  get.  You've  not  lost  a  cent.  I've 
gained  nothing  by  it;  and  yet  you  gentlemen 
are  going  to  give  this  thing  to  the  papers,  and, 
as  you  say,  sir,  we  know  what  they  will  make 
of  it.  What  with  my  being  my  father's  son, 
and  all  that,  my  father  is  going  to  suffer.  My 
family  is  going  to  suffer.  It  will  ruin  me ' 

The  editor  put  the  papers  back  into  his 
pocket.  If  Bronson  had  not  been  there  he 
might  possibly  instead  have  handed  them  over 
to  Mr.  Aram,  and  this  story  would  never  have 
been  written.  But  he  could  not  do  that  now. 

325 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

Mr.  Aram's  affairs  had  become  the  property  of 
the  New  York  newspaper. 

He  turned  to  his  friend  doubtfully.  "What 
do  you  think,  Bronson?"  he  asked. 

At  this  sign  of  possible  leniency  Aram  ceased 
in  his  rocking  and  sat  erect,  with  eyes  wide 
open  and  fixed  on  Bronson's  face.  But  the  lat 
ter  trailed  his  stick  over  the  rug  beneath  his 
feet  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Mr.  Aram,"  he  said,  "might  have  thought 
of  his  family  and  his  father  before  he  went  into 
this  business.  It  is  rather  late  now.  But,"  he 
added,  "I  don't  think  it  is  a  matter  we  can 
decide  in  any  event.  It  should  be  left  to  the 
firm." 

"Yes,"  said  the  editor,  hurriedly,  glad  of  the 
excuse  to  temporize,  "we  must  leave  it  to  the 
house."  But  he  read  Bronson's  answer  to 
mean  that  he  did  not  intend  to  let  the  plagiarist 
escape,  and  he  knew  that  even  were  Bronson 
willing  to  do  so,  there  was  still  his  City  Editor 
to  be  persuaded. 

The  two  men  rose  and  stood  uncomfortably, 
shifting  their  hats  in  their  hands — and  avoiding 
each  other's  eyes.  Mr.  Aram  stood  up  also, 
and  seeing  that  his  last  chance  had  come,  began 
again  to  plead  desperately. 

"What  good  would  fifteen  dollars  do  me?" 
he  said,  with  a  gesture  of  his  hands  round  the 

326 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

room.  "I  don't  have  to  look  for  money  as 
hard  as  that.  I  tell  you,"  he  reiterated,  "it 
wasn't  the  money  I  wanted.  I  didn't  mean 
any  harm.  I  didn't  know  it  was  wrong.  I 
just  wanted  to  please  my  wife — that  was  all. 
My  God,  man,  can't  you  see  that  you  are  pun 
ishing  me  out  of  all  proportion?" 

The  visitors  walked  toward  the  door,  and  he 
followed  them,  talking  the  faster  as  they  drew 
near  to  it.  The  scene  had  become  an  exceed 
ingly  painful  one,  and  they  were  anxious  to 
bring  it  to  a  close. 

The  editor  interrupted  him.  "We  will  let 
you  know,"  he  said,  "what  we  have  decided  to 
do  by  to-morrow  morning." 

"You  mean,"  retorted  the  man,  hopelessly 
and  reproachfully,  "that  I  will  read  it  in  the 
Sunday  papers." 

Before  the  editor  could  answer  they  heard  the 
door  leading  into  the  apartment  open  and  close, 
and  some  one  stepping  quickly  across  the  hall 
to  the  room  in  which  they  stood.  The  entrance 
to  the  room  was  hung  with  a  portiere,  and  as 
the  three  men  paused  in  silence  this  portiere 
was  pushed  back,  and  a  young  kdy  stood  in 
the  doorway,  holding  the  curtains  apart  with 
her  two  hands.  She  was  smiling,  and  the  smile 
lighted  a  face  that  was  inexpressibly  bright  and 
honest  and  true.  Aram's  face  had  been  low- 

327 


THE   EDITOR'S  STORY 

ered,  but  the  eyes  of  the  other  two  men  were 
staring  wide  open  toward  the  unexpected  fig 
ure,  which  seemed  to  bring  a  taste  of  fresh  pure 
air  into  the  feverish  atmosphere  of  the  place. 
The  girl  stopped  uncertainly  when  she  saw  the 
two  strangers,  and  bowed  her  head  slightly  as 
the  mistress  of  a  house  might  welcome  any  one 
whom  she  found  in  her  drawing-room.  She 
was  entirely  above  and  apart  from  her  sur 
roundings.  It  was  not  only  that  she  was  ex 
ceedingly  pretty,  but  that  everything  about 
her,  from  her  attitude  to  her  cloth  walking- 
dress,  was  significant  of  good  taste  and  high 
breeding. 

She  paused  uncertainly,  still  smiling,  and 
with  her  gloved  hands  holding  back  the  curtains 
and  looking  at  Aram  with  eyes  filled  with  a 
kind  confidence.  She  was  apparently  waiting 
for  him  to  present  his  friends. 

The  editor  made  a  sudden  but  irrevocable 
resolve.  "If  she  is  only  a  chance  visitor,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "I  will  still  expose  him;  but  if 
that  woman  in  the  doorway  is  his  wife,  I  will 
push  Bronson  under  the  elevated  train,  and  the 
secret  will  die  with  me." 

What  Bronson' s  thoughts  were  he  could  not 
know,  but  he  was  conscious  that  his  friend  had 
straightened  his  broad  shoulders  and  was  hold 
ing  his  head  erect. 

328 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

•* 

Aram  raised  his  face,  but  he  did  not  look  at 
the  woman  in  the  door.  "In  a  minute,  dear," 
he  said;  "I  am  busy  with  these  gentlemen." 

The  girl  gave  a  little  "oh"  of  apology,  smiled 
at  her  husband's  bent  head,  inclined  her  own 
again  slightly  to  the  other  men,  and  let  the 
portiere  close  behind  her.  It  had  been  as  dra 
matic  an  entrance  and  exit  as  the  two  visitors 
had  ever  seen  upon  the  stage.  It  was  as  if  Aram 
had  given  a  signal,  and  the  only  person  who 
could  help  him  had  come  in  the  nick  of  time  to 
plead  for  him.  Aram,  stupid  as  he  appeared  to 
be,  had  evidently  felt  the  effect  his  wife's  ap 
pearance  had  made  upon  his  judges.  He  still 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor,  but  he  said, 
and  this  time  with  more  confidence  in  his  tone: 

"It  is  not,  gentlemen,  as  though  I  were  an 
old  man.  I  have  so  very  long  to  live — so  long 
to  try  to  live  this  down.  Why,  I  am  as  young 
as  you  are.  How  would  you  like  to  have  a 
thing  like  this  to  carry  with  you  till  you  died?" 

The  editor  still  stood  staring  blankly  at  the 
curtains  through  which  Mr.  Aram's  good  angel, 
for  whom  he  had  lied  and  cheated  in  order  to 
gain  credit  in  her  eyes,  had  disappeared.  He 
pushed  them  aside  with  his  stick.  "We  will  let 
you  know  to-morrow  morning,"  he  repeated, 
and  the  two  men  passed  out  from  the  poet's 
presence,  and  on  into  the  hall.  They  descended 

329 


the  stairs  in  an  uncomfortable  silence,  Bronson 
leading  the  way,  and  the  editor  endeavoring  to 
read  his  verdict  by  the  back  of  his  head  and 
shoulders. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  pulled  his  friend 
by  the  sleeve.  "Bronson,"  he  coaxed,  "you 
are  not  going  to  use  it,  are  you?" 

Bronson  turned  on  him  savagely.  "For 
Heaven's  sake!"  he  protested,  "what  do  you 
think  I  am;  did  you  see  her?" 

So  the  New  York lost  a  very  good  story, 

and  Bronson  a  large  sum  of  money  for  not 
writing  it,  and  Mr.  Aram  was  taught  a  lesson, 
and  his  young  wife's  confidence  in  him  remained 
unshaken.  The  editor  and  reporter  dined  to 
gether  that  night,  and  over  their  cigars  decided 
with  sudden  terror  that  Mr.  Aram  might,  in  his 
ignorance  of  their  good  intentions  concerning 
him,  blow  out  his  brains,  and  for  nothing.  So 
they  despatched  a  messenger  boy  up-town  in 
post-haste  with  a  note  saying  that  "the  firm" 
had  decided  to  let  the  matter  drop — although, 
perhaps,  it  would  have  been  better  to  have 
given  him  one  sleepless  night  at  least. 

That  was  three  years  ago,  and  since  then  Mr. 
Aram's  father  has  fallen  out  with  Tammany, 
and  has  been  retired  from  public  service. 
Bronson  has  been  sent  abroad  to  represent  the 
United  States  at  a  foreign  court,  and  has  asked 

330 


THE  EDITOR'S  STORY 

the  editor  to  write  the  story  that  he  did  not 
write,  but  with  such  changes  in  the  names  of 
people  and  places  that  no  one  save  Mr.  Aram 
may  know  who  Mr.  Aram  really  was  and  is. 

This  the  editor  has  done,  reporting  what 
happened  as  faithfully  as  he  could,  and  in  the 
hope  that  it  will  make  an  interesting  story  in 
spite  of  the  fact,  and  not  on  account  of  the 
fact,  that  it  is  a  true  one. 


33* 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Book  Slip-35m-9,'62(D221884)4280 


UCLA-College  Library 

PS  1522  V18  1918 


L  005  678  466  3 


College 
Library 

PS 

1522 

/18 
.918 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  196722     1 


